


Stag King

by Eilit



Series: From Brittle Iron to Valyrian Steel: The Forging of a King [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Feral Behavior, Feral Stannis, Gen, Older Man/Younger Woman, Redemption, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 71,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilit/pseuds/Eilit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis Baratheon prevails at the Battle of Winterfell. Sansa Stark escapes the Vale and returns to her ancestral home. With Sansa's help, Stannis slowly recovers from his injuries, but he must acknowledge and battle his own inner demons in order to fully heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who am I?

**Author's Note:**

> Update February 2018: This story is on hiatus until I finish my other WIP. I have not abandoned it, and will continue once Fight Club is complete.
> 
> Even though this is Part 2 of the series, this story actually begins many months before the events depicted in Part 1, 'Something More', and will continue on through that event and deal with the aftermath. That one is actually a bit of teaser fic, and it could stand alone. This one is the full deal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne remembers who she really is.

Alayne Stone paused for a moment in the courtyard, savoring the blue sky, warm sun and lack of noise and chaos. Petyr's tourney to select young Lord Robert Arryn's personal guard had concluded a few days ago, thankfully without fatalities. Yesterday the last guests enjoying the Royce's hospitality at the Gates of the Moon departed for Gulltown, Petyr Baelish accompanying them to the small port city.

"I have business to attend to in Gulltown, my sweetling. I shall return within a month's time, have no fear."

Smiling, Alayne replied with a warmth she did not really feel, "I know I am safe here, Father, thanks to you."

Reaching his hand up to stroke her hair back out of her face, Petyr smiled softly. "I believe you have charmed young Harry rather completely. When I return from Gulltown we shall begin planning your wedding arrangements."

Hiding her true feelings was a skill Alayne had adopted in Kings Landing, and honed here at the Vale thanks to Petyr's coaching. Alayne grinned and hugged him tightly. "I shall pray for your quick and safe journey to Gulltown and back, Father."

With that farewell Petyr had cheerfully walked over to join the group of twenty or so riders mulling around the courtyard's gate, preparing to leave for Gulltown. Alayne waved goodbye and bade the group safe journey.

Today the keep felt strangely empty to Alayne. Now, walking across the mostly empty courtyard towards her room, Alayne hid her rising panic and dismay behind a smile and cheery step. Her friend Myranda Royce was hailing her from a nearby doorway. Greeting her friend joyfully, Alayne told her they shall have to start planning for a wedding soon.

Entering the keep, the two ladies seated themselves in a corner of the great hall and gossiped about the knights in the tournament and who might Myranda favor.

"Perhaps I can persuade my father to gift Ser Lyn with a holding of his own, so that he and I may marry." Myranda was forever pining about Ser Lyn Corbrey, even though he was landless. Mostly because she knew she could not have Harry the Heir. Alayne recalled how Ser Lyn spoke to her about not needing 'the Lord Protector's broodmares' with such venom she could barely hide her dismay. Alayne was not so sure that Myranda and Ser Lyn would make a good match.

After chatting with Myranda for far too long, Alayne needed an excuse to get away. Her thoughts were in turmoil, and she wanted some solitude in order to find some sort of equilibrium. The reality of enduring yet another unwanted marriage weighed heavily on her heart. A wail sounded from the direction of the young Lord of the Eyrie's chamber, providing the necessary cover. "Alayne, Alayne..."

"Excuse me, Randa, I must attend to Sweet Robin." With that Alayne jumped off the bench and hurried out of the great hall.

By the time Alayne arrived in Robert's chamber, the boy had fallen fully into the grip of an extremely violent shaking fit. A nursemaid was already attending to him. All awareness of his surroundings had left him. Head arched back, mouth frothing, the boy twisted and writhed in his bed. His clothing and sheets were soaked with sweat and urine.

"Have you given him his draught?", Alayne asked the maid.

"No miss, he cannot swallow anything now, or he will choke."

It took Alayne and the nursemaid nearly an hour to get Robert calmed down enough for him to swallow his sleeping aid.

"Sweet Robin, Robin, young eagle, Alayne is here." Alayne held Robert while he shook and sang his favorite songs over and over again. Eventually his fit subsided, but the glazed expression in his eyes remained. She gently swept his sweaty hair back off his brow, and held the cup filled with the sleeping mix up to his mouth. Exhausted and amenable, Robert drank the mixture without making a fuss. He fell asleep almost immediately.

Alayne addressed the nursemaid. "Stay with him please. He will sleep through the night and probably a good bit of tomorrow as well."

Alayne made her way to her own room without incident. She needed to change her dress, as it had become soiled with Robert's sweat, urine and vomit. It smelled absolutely revolting.

Having changed her clothes, she allowed herself a childish moment as she flopped back across her bed and screamed silently into her pillow. Still unsure of what course she should take, Alayne nonetheless felt strangely better. She also felt restless. Getting up, she walked over and opened her window to gaze across the quiet valley. A raven flew past her towards the small garden where a weirwood tree grew. It seemed to call out to her - _"Follow Follow."_

Thoughts of Winterfell's Godswood entered her mind without any conscious effort. Alayne shut the window and ran out of her room. She felt compelled to visit the weirwood, but could not explain why. Taking a little-used hallway, she exited the main keep by a small side door and followed an overgrown path to the enclosed garden. No one else appeared to be anywhere near the garden. She was alone. Or not. The raven that had flown past the window perched in the tree above her.

Approaching the weirwood tree with some hesitation, Alayne thought of her true father, Lord Eddard Stark. He had revered the old gods. Throughout her childhood she had chosen to follow the Seven instead. Now that she stood before this weirwood, she wondered if she would be welcomed or spurned.

 _"Tree Tree"_ croaked the raven. Alayne, startled, looked up. "It talks..." she whispered to herself. Red leaves tumbled around her as the tree swayed and shook. Unsure of what she was supposed to do, but certain that some force had called her here, Alayne stepped up close to the tree amidst the gnarled roots and placed her hands on the smooth white trunk. Immediately images of her true family flashed through her mind. Bran, Jon, Arya, Rickon. Winterfell. Direwolves. A giant wall of ice. Darkness. Evil. _"Sansa Sansa"_ , sounded a voice so much like Bran's she fell to the ground in shock.

"But Bran is dead, Theon killed him," she thought. Tears threatened to spill down her face. Shakily pulling herself upright, she touched the tree again. More images of the north and her family, more sounds and voices, more feelings bombarded her senses and mind, one after another, relentless. _"Sansa Sansa. Stark. Winterfell."_ The voice still sounded exactly like her brother Bran. Scared, terrified really, Alayne quickly fled the garden and made her way back to her room.

Looking in her mirror, Alayne took stock of herself. Her dark hair was braided on top of her head Southron style. Her face looked blotchy and was flushed red, with teary eyes currently showing a great deal of fear and uncertainty. Behind one ear a bit of auburn red hair was starting to show at the scalp. Momentarily panicking, she thought "Oh no, my hair, I must hide it, Alayne has dark hair..." A knock at the door brought Alayne out of her panic.

"Alayne, it's Myranda. Are you coming with me to dine in the great hall? The sun has already set."

Alayne had no idea how much time she had actually spent in the small garden with the weirwood tree. Evidently longer than she thought, as nightfall had arrived.

"I will meet you down there shortly, Randa. I need to clean up first." Alayne proceeded to wash her face and redo her hair so that the red roots would not show. By then her expression looked much more normal, and she felt as though she could go about her evening as usual without falling apart.

Hours later Alayne tossed and turned in her bed, unable to stay asleep. She kept replaying the afternoon's incident in the garden in her mind over and over again. The raven and the weirwood tree had delivered a message, that much she had discerned. She did not know what she should do. Fear of the unknown could paralyze someone, making them unable to make a decision. She feared the Lannisters' wrath and their vast resources. She feared Petyr, even though she pretended to love him and be grateful for his protection. In her heart she knew he was only using her. She feared leaving the safety of the Vale, but also feared staying put. She had not chosen her path, all choices had been seemingly taken from her.

The wind suddenly knocked her window wide open, allowing the moonlight to stream into her room. Sitting up to look about, Alayne gasped. The same raven from the previous afternoon alighted on her windowsill and seemed to look straight at her. It glistened in the harsh white moonlight. _"Winterfell Winterfell, Stark must be in Winterfell. Sansa Sansa Sansa. Winterfell."_ Then the raven flew away.

Shivering and shaken, Alayne got up to close her window, then lit a candle. Now she was truly torn. She recalled the Stark family motto 'Winter is Coming.' Her father had taught them all that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. "But now there are only Boltons in Winterfell..." she mused. The images the weirwood tree had shown her came to her mind unbidden. Darkness and evil. Snow and ice. The giant wall. "I am the last Stark..."

Momentarily despairing, Alayne carried the candle with her to look in the mirror. She again saw the auburn hair peeking at her and tried to remember where the brown dye was, as Alayne has dark hair. Looking at her Tully blue eyes, she recalled who else had those same eyes. Her mother, her brothers Robb and Bran, and remembered they were all Starks. And so is she.

"NO! I am not Alayne Stone, I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell!" With resolve, Sansa began planning her escape to the North. For the first time in her fifteen years of life, Sansa made a conscious decision to become the architect of her own future.


	2. For the Watch, For the King, For the Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events spiral out of control at the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre fans beware. Back to Sansa next chapter!

Standing in Castle Black's courtyard, Jon Snow heard the words "For the Watch", but their meaning did not register with him. Then he felt the knives pierce and slash him, and the awful biting cold and darkness descend. "Ghost," he whispered. Darkness fell upon him, then nothing.

Bowen Marsh and the other mutineers walked away, leaving Jon's bleeding, still body laying on the snow covered ground. Ghost, the giant white direwolf, paced around Jon's body, sniffing and huffing repeatedly. Looking back, Marsh spoke loud enough for everyone to hear him. "And now his watch has ended."

Devan Seaworth had been walking along one of the balconies overlooking the yard at the time of the betrayal and stabbing of Jon Snow. He stood stock still, struck speechless with horror and confusion. The Wildlings milling about appeared to be struck dumb as well, at least for the moment. Then chaos reigned as the Wildlings rushed the men in black who had killed Jon Snow. They grudgingly understood that it was only due to the Lord Commander's influence and leadership that they were on the south side of the Wall and still alive. Watching the scene unfold below spurred Devan to action. He rushed to the King's Tower to fetch the red priestess, Lady Melisandre. Not bothering to knock, the squire burst into her chamber.

"My Lady, My Lady. Lord Commander Snow is dead!"

Melisandre, who had been staring intently into the flames of her fire, turned toward Devan in alarm. Her eyes flashed red and the ruby seated at the base of her throat flashed. 

"What!?", she cried. "This cannot be! Quickly, lead me to him."

As they dashed out of the tower and into the courtyard, the harsh sounds of men shouting and steel swords clashing filled the air. Clearly a full blown fight had erupted. Wildlings fought against some men of the Night's Watch, while other Black Brothers fought each other. Few of the southron knights were to be seen. Devan feared for Melisandre's safety as they approached the melee.

Her own safety was the farthest thought from her mind as the Red Priestess hurried toward the prone, bleeding body of Jon Snow. Using one of her many spells, she projected her voice across the entire courtyard, effectively putting an end to the bloody skirmishes.

"ENOUGH! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS ATROCITY?" Melisandre's voice echoed double across the courtyard. Nobody moved.

Bowen Marsh then approached Melisandre. "The former Lord Commander broke his vow by allying with and bringing all these dirty Wildlings here. Then he decided to abandon his watch to avenge your dead king and Winterfell," he sneered.

Stunned and devastated, both Melisandre and Devan fell to their knees next to the body of Jon Snow as they mourned their king. Ghost, who had been pacing nearby, stopped and gently nudged Melisandre with his nose. Noticing this, Devan, who had started to believe in R'hllor more than the Seven, asked the priestess, "Should you not grant Jon Snow the last kiss, My Lady?"

Coming to her senses, Melisandre nodded. Whispering some words in a strange language, ending with 'Valar Morghulis', Melisandre bent over Jon Snow and breathed fire into his mouth - the last kiss of life, to cleanse his soul. Those men not dead or grievously injured in the quick but violent clashes looked on the proceedings with awe, as Jon Snow suddenly opened his eyes, took a deep shuddering breath and sat upright.

Silence weighed heavy for a moment as no spoke. Many men dropped to their knees. Some pissed their pants in fear. Melisandre herself could scarcely believe what she had witnessed - no, not witnessed, but had wrought. She had never seen this feat occur before, but did not doubt her eyes. She had felt R'hllor's fire work through her to resurrect Jon Snow.

Thinking quickly, she leapt to her feet and called loudly, "All praise R'hllor, The Lord of Light! He has breathed the fire of life back into this man of the north. Clearly you must acknowledge his power and generosity now. Abandon your old gods; only R'hllor brings life back anew!"

Meanwhile Devan Seaworth was helping an unsteady Jon Snow back to his feet. All of his wounds had healed without a trace. Ghost pushed up close and refused to leave Jon's side.

"Lord Commander, are you alright?" Devan asked anxiously. "Do you know what has happened?"

The events of the past hour rushed through Jon's mind in a blur. "I, I was betrayed...cut...stabbed. I felt the cold, then nothing, then I could see my body, laying there, you all standing around me..." Looking down at Ghost, Jon suddenly realized he had warged into his direwolf before his body died.

"What will you do now, Lord Commander?" Devan's earnest brown eyes still showed signs of fear.

Before Jon could answer, a rather nasty voice sounded across the ground. "He is no longer the Lord Commander, boy. In fact, he is no longer a member of the Night's Watch at all. _**His Watch Has Ended.**_ " With that pronouncement Bowen Marsh walked away.

Jon looked up at the sky, at Devan, at Ghost, at the Wildlings. _Free Folk._ "Freedom," he whispered to himself. He then realized that he had to quit Castle Black quickly, or he might get killed again. For good.

The Lady Melisandre had seemingly forgotten her grief concerning the death of King Stannis; strangely she appeared calm and incredibly sure of herself.

"Jon Snow, walk with me to the tower, tell me of this letter you received, and what you mean to do about it."

Wildlings and Black Brothers alike jumped out of their way as Jon and Melisandre headed to the tower. Once inside, Jon found himself in the Queen's adopted solar, facing Selyse Baratheon and her uncle Ser Axell Florent, the Hand of the Queen. Selyse Baratheon's unpleasant demeanor towards Jon made her husband seem almost warm and friendly in comparison. Selyse did not betray any emotion upon learning the contents of the letter sent from Ramsey Bolton. Indeed, she merely turned toward Melisandre and asked "What does The Lord of Light require?"

"The all-powerful Lord of Light gifted Jon Snow with his fire, granting him a second life. I am convinced now that R'hllor can bring his fire back to our king as well. But only at great sacrifice."

Jon Snow frowned, puzzled. "I don't understand, My Lady. You sacrificed nothing yet here I stand before you."

Turning to Jon, Melisandre smiled. "For a king, R'hllor requires King's Blood." Just then the door opened and a small girl with Stannis Baratheon's dark blue eyes rushed inside.

"Mother, Mother is it true? I heard the men talking, saying Father has been killed in battle!" Shireen Baratheon's greyscale-scarred face showed distress and sadness. "Say it isn't true, please!"

Kneeling down before the young princess, Melisandre gently took her hand. "Jon Snow received a letter, it is true, stating that your Lord Father fell in battle. But fear not, Princess, for R'hllor, The Lord of Light himself, has shown me the way."

Standing, Melisandre turned and faced Selyse and Ser Axell. The red ruby pulsed rapidly. "King's Blood. For the King." Jon thought her voice sounded rather queer, both far away and up close at the same time. He didn't like it.

Fervor and zealous devotion glowed in the eyes of the Queen and her uncle. "King's Blood. For the King." They repeated this again and again, almost chant-like.

Melisandre addressed Ser Axell after a moment. "Ser Axell, prepare a platform for the nightfire. You know what to do." Axell Florent promptly left the room. His booming voice carried through the door as he called for several knights to follow him outside. They had much to accomplish before nightfall.

Selyse Baratheon decided she had tolerated Jon Snow's bastard presence long enough and rudely dismissed him. He was quite happy to oblige her.

Making his way back to the Wildlings that had volunteered to join him on his mission to Winterfell, Jon snow felt a sense of evil form deep in his gut. Just outside the the main gate to Castle Black, the Queen's Men were working with and directing several members of the Night's Watch to build what appeared to be a large wooden platform. "So this is where they will hold their nightfire," he mused.

Stepping up next to Jon, Tormund Giantsbane looked out at the bustling activity as well. "Nice trick that, getting stabbed and declared dead, then jumping up all nice and healthy again. Interesting way to get out of your vows," he chuckled.

Outraged, Jon turned to the Wildling leader. "It was no trick!" he declared angrily. "I don't know how it happened or why." Brooding, Jon looked back across the yard to the scene before him. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. You're right, though. I am no longer a Brother of the Watch. Tomorrow I will depart for Winterfell. Will those Wildlings still join me?"

"Aye, lad, they will, and I will still go to Hardhome. But without any Crows. We'd rather do something than sit around waiting for Crows to stab us in the back too."

"We leave at first light tomorrow, then. Tell your men to pack and prepare now." Jon left Tormund to see to his own preparations.

*******************************************************************************************

As darkness fell Lady Melisandre, the Queen, Shireen and the entire Southron retinue marched in a procession to the site of the nightfire. Squire Devan Seaworth hovered close to his friend, Princess Shireen. Jon, Tormund, and many of the Wildlings and Brothers of the Night Watch decided to watch the proceedings from a short distance away. Jon had a feeling that something different would occur on this night. Again, that sense of evil and foreboding grew deep within him.

Melisandre paced around the as yet unlit platform in front of the crowd. Gesturing and speaking incantations in an unfamiliar tongue, the torch in her hand suddenly sprang to life, burning with a bright red fire. The crowd began to chant. "Lord of Light, R'hllor is Life!" Continuing her incantations, Melisandre walked around the platform and paused briefly at each of the four corner posts, lighting them as she passed. The area was now alight with a bright red glow. The ruby Melisandre wore began to pulsate rapidly as well.

Coming back to the front where Selyse stood with her daughter, Melisandre addressed the crowd. "Today you all saw The Lord of Light breath his fire of life back into Jon Snow. R'hllor's power and might is beyond question. But, with great gifts must come great sacrifices. You may have heard that our glorious king, Stannis, fell in battle. The Lord of Light is generous. King's Blood shall bring King's Life. For the King!"

"For the King!" the fervent followers droned over and over again. "For the King!" Eyes shining bright red, looking behind Shireen, Melisandre nodded deliberately, delivering a signal.

Devan noticed then that two knights had been standing directly behind Princess Shireen. Each man took one of her arms and brought her to Melisandre. "Be brave my dear. Great power requires great sacrifice. King's Blood for the King." The little girl struggled mightily, but to no avail. She had no strength to free herself from the strong men's grips. They carried her up and tied her to the platform.

From their vantage point Jon Snow and the other onlookers deduced what was about to happen. "No!" Jon shouted, unsheathing Longclaw and dashing towards the crowd. He knew he would never make it in time but he had to try regardless. The crowd seemed to be stuck in some sort of daze, chanting "For the King, For the King".

Jon's shout shook Devan from his reverie. Watching in horror and disgust, he knew the time to act was now, or never. Turning to the closest knight, Devan grabbed that man's sword and ran with it toward Melisandre as fast as he could. No one expected this. Devan ran Melisandre through from behind before she could light the platform on fire. His sword stuck out through the front of her chest. As he pulled it back out she collapsed. Looking up at Devan, blood seeping from her nose and mouth, she whispered, "R'hllor, For the King."

Jon burst through the crowd just as Melisandre fell. Thankfully the Princess was still unburnt. He watched as Devan raised the sword again and say to the Red Priestess, "For the Princess." Then Devan swung his sword down upon Melisandre's neck, severing her head and destroying the red ruby. The ruby exploded in a shower of sparks, breaking the spell everyone had fallen into. Jon swore he saw dark shadows flit up from the site of the destroyed ruby, only to dissipate into the smoke and darkness. Faint, unearthly shrieks accompanied the shadows' disappearance. At that point, Melisandre's body burst into flames, to be consumed completely by the fire. Almost immediately nothing was left of her but a dark smudge upon the snow.

Jerking herself free, Shireen jumped down and dashed over to her mother, who had collapsed to the ground. Everyone participating in the macabre rite had fallen into a state of shock. That shock proved to be too much for Selyse to bear, as she took her last breath and stared sightless at the sky.

Jon Snow noticed that Devan Seaworth also seemed to be in shock, not due to the interruption of the religious sacrifice but because he had killed for the very first time. Jon also realized that their window of opportunity was quickly closing, and the boy would soon be in mortal danger from the knights coming down from their zealous fervor. Placing his hand on Devan's shoulder, Jon shook him, gently at first, then more emphatically when the boy did not respond. Shuddering, Devan looked at Jon with a slightly dazed expression.

"Devan, you must come with me now. You cannot stay here with the Queen's men. There is nothing more you can do. You will ride with me and the Wildlings to Winterfell."

Still the squire did not reply. With exasperation Jon grabbed Devan by the arm and roughly dragged him through the crowd to Tormund and the other Wildlings. "Keep him with you for now. Protect him from the Southron knights, and get him some furs and supplies for the journey. He will ride south with me, as he is no longer safe from Melisandre's followers."

Walking back, Jon identified Ser Axell Florent, who appeared to have come back to reality. Grief was written plainly on the man's face as he kneeled next to his niece's body. Speaking softly, but clearly, Jon said, "Ser Axell, like it or not, Shireen is now your liege. You must see that no harm befalls her. Can you do that?"

Standing, the barrel-chested man looked about in anger. "Where is he? Where is that upstart commoner boy? R'hllor demands justice!"

"You are neither priest nor Lord, Ser Axell. You are Shireen's guardian and only blood kin that she has here now. Her safety is your priority, your _duty_. Again I ask you, will you keep her safe, Ser? Will you do your duty?"

Finally, that seemed to get through to Ser Axell. With determination, he looked Jon straight in the eye. "You are correct, Lord Snow. Princess...no, Queen Shireen is my only priority now, it is my duty to protect her."

"Good. I suggest you make your way back to Eastwatch by the Sea, and from there go to White Harbor if Lord Manderly is amenable. Castle Black is no longer safe."

Standing next to his great-niece, Ser Axell addressed Shireen. "Your Grace, we must return to the castle and prepare to depart. My duty is to see to your safety."

"Please Ser Axell, we must first tend to Mother." The girl's tears were falling now, dripping down her face. Ser Axell nodded in agreement.

Looking at Ghost, Jon buried his hand in the white wolf's thick fur, seeking comfort and support. The day had started strangely, hectic and violent, and had ended even more so. He felt out of balance as of yet, and could not even begin to process the turmoil of emotions swirling inside him. Focusing on his mission to Winterfell helped center him on a goal that he could strive towards. Jon walked to his quarters to pack his belongings and prepare to leave Castle Black again, this time never to return.


	3. Escape and Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes home.

When Sansa awoke the next morning, the beautiful clear skies had been invaded by dark, low-hanging clouds. A mist seemed to cling to everything outside, and the fog prevented her from viewing the valley or even the mountain hovering right above the keep. Even her room felt damp and clammy.

The weather seemed to reflect Sansa's mood, for realization had sunk in. How was she to escape from the Vale and Petyr's watchdogs? She could only pray that a solution would present itself soon. If not, she would be forced to flee alone, before Petyr returned from Gulltown.

Putting on a dark brown dress, Sansa draped a green knitted shawl over her shoulders to ward off the chilly damp air. Straightening up, determined to play her part as Alayne so as not to arouse any suspicion, Sansa exited her room to find some breakfast and chat with her friend Myranda.

Pausing at an overlook in the hallway, Sansa regarded the stableyard below the window. Lothor Brune was assisting Mya Stone with one of her mules, which had apparently thrown a shoe. Lothor was often found in Mya's presence, even if that meant he ended up smelling like a horse all the time. Although he behaved very cordially towards her, Sansa knew that Lothor Brune was one of Petyr's loyal henchmen, and may very well be aware of her true identity. She had to be careful; he was one of the watchdogs Petyr had set to keep tabs on her.

Continuing, Sansa entered the great hall in search of Myranda. She must retain her normal routines and demeanor as Alayne Stone. Unfortunately, Myranda had sought out a seat next to Ser Lyn Corbray, whose unpleasant manner had yet to improve. Not looking forward to this particular encounter, Sansa put on a bright smile anyway, and greeted her friend and Ser Lyn.

"Good morning Randa, greetings Ser Lyn, what good news is there today?"

Snarling, Ser Lyn rose abruptly from the table. "Your Lord Protector father is not currently in residence; that is good enough news for me." With that the surly knight stomped out of the great hall, heading to the training yards.

Unsettled, Sansa looked at Myranda with worry. "Has he been that rude to you, too?" Myranda shook her head. "He hasn't exactly been charming, but I don't understand why he would treat you so poorly, Alayne."

"Neither do I. But, as a bastard I have no real standing, so I am used to it, I suppose." Inside Sansa felt mortified. She knew Ser Lyn was Petyr's man, bought and paid for, but was now unsure of his true loyalties or intentions. One thing was certain though; the animosity he exhibited toward Alayne Stone was very real. With a heavy heart Sansa also wished she could turn back time and change the way she had treated her brother Jon Snow. Perhaps one day I can visit him, and we could maybe start anew, she thought. Burying her anxieties, Sansa put on a happy face and proceeded to break her fast and chat with Myranda

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Alayne, Father received word that his cousin Lord Yahn departed Runestone several days ago; he should arrive here within the next day or two at most. Lord Yohn and your father do not seem to get on very well; it is good that he is visiting while the Lord Protector is away on business." Sansa knew that Myranda was fishing for more information, but she had no intention of sharing any of her suspicions with her gossip-prone friend.

Sansa's smile at hearing the news was completely genuine. Suddenly, her way out may have presented itself. She was aware that Lord Yahn held no loyalty towards Petyr Baelish, and in fact had opposed naming Petyr Lord Protector of the Vale. She was sure Lord Yahn would recognize her true identity if she presented herself to him. The key would be to conceal it until she could speak to Lord Yahn in private. To do so she would have to distract Petyr's watchdogs. She had much to ponder and little time to prepare. "Pardon me, Myranda, but I should go check on Lord Robert." And with that, Sansa exited the great hall.

Walking up to young Lord Robert Arryn's chambers, Sansa made note of which men in the hall paid attention to her departure. She had not yet figured out all those men loyal to Petyr, so she continued to behave as Alayne should. She must maintain her cover and not arouse anyone's curiousity.

The nursemaid from the previous day was still in attendance. “How is he?” asked Sansa. “Still sleeping miss. He tossed and turned some, but he has slept well. No fits or shakes.”

Departing SweetRobin's room, Sansa decided to go to Petyr's office. It was not unusual to find her there, as Petyr occasionally had her read correspondence with him. No one would find it out of the ordinary.

Entering the room and quietly closing the door behind her, Sansa quickly walked over to a statue of a falcon, where she then picked up a key hidden beneath it. Using the key she opened a hidden drawer located behind a tapestry hanging on the wall. Within she found a small leather bag full of gold and silver coins; more than enough to get her to Winterfell.

Something else inside the compartment drew her eye – a rolled up piece of parchment that she not seen before. Pulling it out, she noted the Bolton family seal imprinted on pink wax. With shaking hands she quickly unrolled the parchment and read the contents.

_**Lord Baelish, I admit to receiving your offer with much reservation. However, I am intrigued, and I find the merits of your proposal outweigh any possible risks, and believe we will both benefit.** _

_**I accept your proposal to marry your ward, Sansa Stark, to my son Ramsey. This will cement our partnership, my hold over the North and your position at the Eyrie.** _

_**Respectfully, Roose Bolton, Warden of the North** _

Gasping, Sansa quickly returned the parchment to the drawer. Taking the coins out of the bag, Sansa replaced them with some small stones and a few cheap copper pennies on top. She put that original bag back in its place in the hidden drawer, locked it, and returned the key to its hiding place. Placing the gold and silver into a separate small bag, she placed that into the carry-sack that was always on her person. Listening intently at the door, Sansa departed Petyr's office when she was certain no one was in the area, and quickly returned to her own room.

"Ramsey Bolton! What game is Petyr playing at? How can he promise me to two different heirs at the same time? And to inform Roose Bolton of my whereabouts?" Astonished, frightened, angry, Sansa paced back and forth, trying to calm down and think clearly.

Sitting down, taking deep breaths, Sansa forced herself to think. Petyr was many days away. Lord Yahn Royce would arrive shortly. At this point he was probably her only hope of escape from Petyr's scheming. Resolved, Sansa immediately felt better. She was still scared, and rightly so, but now she knew that regaining her freedom was within her reach. This time, no one would snatch it away from her.

The following day found Sansa working with her needlework. She was sewing a heavy wool felt under-layer into her cloak, to ward against the cold, when she heard horns sound out. Grabbing her shawl, she hurried to the front of the keep. Myranda, Lord Nestor Royce and the rest of the household had gathered outside to greet Lord Yahn and his party. As the bastard Alayne Stone, Sansa's place was not in front with the Royce family, but off to the side. She stepped next to Mya Stone, who had pulled herself away from her mules in order to observe the arrival.

"I like Lord Yahn - he has never treated me poorly, even though I am just a stable girl." Mya seemed to be in a good mood. Perhaps Lothor's attentions had distracted her from pining away after Mychel Redfort.

"If a Lord treats servants and bastards alike with decency then that shows some goodness of character," stated Sansa.

Nodding in agreement, Mya turned back to watch the Lord of Runestone and his retinue dismount. There were close to twenty riders attending Lord Royce. Mya would soon be busy in the stables, tending to all the extra horses. Suddenly gasping, Mya grabbed Sansa's arm and pointed. "Alayne, look! It's the Blackfish himself! Ser Brynden Tully! He left the Vale a few years ago. Some thought he had died at the Twins at that awful wedding."

Sansa's heart leaped nearly out of her chest. Ser Brynden was her great-uncle. She recalled her mother speaking very fondly of the famous knight. Now she felt certain that this visit was no coincidence. However, she realized that she would have to be very careful upon greeting Ser Brynden, in order to not alert any of Petyr's watchdogs. She had never met her famous great-uncle, but even from a distance she could pick him out of the crowd. Tall, with silver hair and a leaping black trout emblazoned as his coat of arms, the man stood out from the rest of the group dismounting.

Lord Yahn approached his cousin at the entrance to the keep, Ser Brynden just a step behind. "Greetings cousin! I felt this visit was in order before winter snowed in the passes for good."

"You are most welcome, my cousin. And greetings to you as well, my former Knight of the Gate!" Turning back to Lord Yahn, Nestor said, "The Lord Protector has departed for Gulltown, and shall not return for close to a month. May I present to you his daughter, Alayne Stone?"

This was Sansa's cue. She prayed that the Lord of Runestone and Ser Brynden would recognize her true identity, but be savvy enough not to acknowledge it so in front of the community. Her safety depended upon their discretion. Taking a steadying breath, Sansa stepped forward to the two visitors and executed a flawless curtsy, eyes downcast. Standing, she dared to look up at 'Bronze Yahn' as he was called. "I am most honored to meet you, My Lord, Ser, and am grateful for Lord Nestor's hospitality." Unwittingly, Cersei had taught her well.

Lord Yahn smiled politely. "Nice to meet you Alayne. I was unaware that Lord Baelish had squirreled away such a pretty daughter in Gulltown."

"My Lord Father felt that with all of the conflict and uncertainty that the Eyrie would prove to be far safer than any port city." Sansa was proud of herself - her voice remained steady in spite of her nervousness.

Sharing a quick look with Lord Yahn, Ser Brynden stepped forward, took Sansa's hand as a chivalrous knight ought to, and looked her in the eyes. Sansa caught herself almost gasping again. His eyes were exactly the same as her mother's, as her own! They _were_ family! And it was only those blue eyes that betrayed any recognition of Sansa, quickly hidden. "How fortuitous, my dear Alayne, that the Lord Protector has brought you here to the Eyrie at this time. We shall speak again soon, I hope?"

Curtsying once again, Sansa stepped back. "I shall look forward to that, Ser Brynden." Then she moved aside, back to her place next to Mya, as the household and their guests proceeded into the keep. As soon as she was able Sansa fled back to her room. She had to finish the alterations on her cloak now, time was of the essence!

Dinner in the great hall turned into a rather noisy and boisterous event. Since SweetRobin was still abed, music and singing soon filled the hall with a cacophony of sound. Most of the visiting knights were soon found dancing with the ladies of the keep. Sansa begged off, even though she had many offers, claiming to be worn out from the past month's continual entertainment. In truth she _was_ tired, but mostly because she had so little sleep the past few nights. Having purposefully avoided Ser Brynden, in order to maintain her cover and not to arouse suspicion, Sansa excused herself from the festivities fairly early and went to her room. She did not notice the unfriendly set of eyes following her departure. Fortunately for her a certain visiting knight with blue eyes did take notice.

An uneasy feeling took root deep within Sansa as she returned to her room. She had felt as though too many people had focused on her, almost to the point of suffocation. She also believed her safety may be in jeopardy now, not from Lord Yahn or Ser Brynden, but because their arrival's timing combined with Petyr's absence was far too convenient to be merely coincidental. Quickly entering her room, she felt paranoid as she looked under her bed and in every corner before shutting and locking her door. For extra measure she also raised the heavy wooden bars in place across the door, normally reserved for use in times of siege. Even if someone else had a key to her room (she was certain of it, actually), no one would be able to break down her door to gain entry. Sansa took similar precautions with her window, even though it would be nearly impossible for anyone to scale the outside wall. She was done making assumptions, except to assume that danger lurked everywhere.

Her precautions proved to be well-founded, as she awoke sometime later to the sound of the lock turning. Heart beating rapidly, Sansa grabbed a dagger she kept hidden, ready to defend herself if need be. The would-be invader attempted to push open the door once, twice, three times to no avail. The bars held! Then voices carried through the heavy wooden door. Although she could not make out the words, they sounded amiable enough, with no trace of animosity or belligerence. Then silence took over once more. Too nervous and jittery to sleep, Sansa sat back on her bed to wait out the night.

Knocking woke Sansa up from a light slumber. She must have dozed off at some point. "Alayne Alayne, are you awake? It's Randa. My father wishes for you to join him and Lord Yahn for breakfast." Jumping up, Sansa unbarred the door and let her friend inside. Looking outside to make sure no one was watching, she pulled her head back in and shut the door again.

"Why do they wish to see me?"

"I honestly don't know, Alayne, except that you have acted in the Lord Protector's place on various social occasions when he was unavailable. Do you remember when we had to greet Lady Waynwood? Perhaps that is all. I wouldn't worry, they are both in good moods today."

"Alright then, help me with my hair, please? I can't possibly present myself to the lords with this rat's nest!" Her Alayne persona firmly in place, Sansa laughed with her friend as they got her sorted out and made presentable for the two lords. They they walked together to Lord Nestor's solar.

When the two ladies entered the solar, Lords Yahn and Nestor, plus Ser Brynden, were already seated. Good manners caused the three men to stand upon the ladies' entrance. Walking over the Myranda, Lord Nestor said, "Thank you, daughter, for fetching Alayne so early. Why don't you go check on Lord Robert?" Pouting, Myranda quit the room, closing the door with a loud thump.

"My dear Alayne, my cousin and Ser Brynden wished to meet with you in private. They were unaware that Petyr Baelish had a daughter such as you."

Holding her breath, biting her lip, Sansa turned toward Ser Brynden. Unable to contain her emotions any longer, her face crumpled as she began to cry. Brynden Tully strode over and hugged her close. "Ssh, it's all right, I knew you the moment I saw you. You have your mother's face, your mother's eyes." She buried her face in his chest, feeling safe for the first time in years.

Confused, Lord Nestor turned to his cousin for an answer. "Petyr Baelish has no daughter. At the very least, this girl certainly isn't his," clarified Yahn Royce.

Angry now, Nestor heatedly berated Ser Brynden. "Explain this! You said you had never met Alayne before, yet she seeks you out now."

It was Sansa herself who answered Lord Nestor. Stepping back from her great-uncle's embrace and wiping her eyes, she faced the irate lord. "My name is not Alayne Stone, Lord Nestor. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Ser Brynden is my mother's uncle. Lord Yahn recognized me too, I believe, from when he visited Winterfell nearly four years ago." Yahn Royce nodded in agreement.

Stunned, but no longer angry, Nestor had to take a seat. He looked between Sansa and Brynden, analyzing their features. At once he noted that their eyes were identical in both shape and color. There was no mistaking the resemblance. "I see it now. But why? How did Petyr get you out of King's Landing? Why the farce, and betrothal to Harry?"

It took the better part of the morning for Sansa to tell her tale to the three men. She also shared her discovery of the letter from Roose Bolton with them. Disgusted, Brynden Tully jumped to his feet. "I will kill that scheming little weasel myself. I never trusted him; not as a boy, and certainly not now."

Touching his arm, Sansa directed the enraged knight's attention back to her. "Uncle, please, I only wish to return North, and get as far away from Petyr Baelish as possible. I want to go home."

Nodding, Lord Yahn finally spoke. "Stannis Baratheon has allied with all the northern clans, the Mormonts, the Glovers and the Umbers. I have reason to believe that Lord Manderly secretly supports Stannis as well. They are all marching on Winterfell, seeking to oust the Boltons from your home."

"The Boltons are universally despised in the North, now more than ever, I believe. Roose Bolton killed my brother Robb. The Freys murdered my mother, and all of my brother's forces." Shaking, but feeling more sure of herself than ever before, Sansa continued vehemently. "My Lord Father supported Stannis Baratheon as King Robert's only true heir. My father had discovered the secret of Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella's parentage, and had written a letter to Lord Stannis with this information, and naming Stannis king. But the Lannisters intercepted that raven; Lord Stannis never received my father's letter of support. I also support Stannis Baratheon. He alone traveled North to save the Wall, then he rallied the clans and routed the Ironborn from Deepwood Motte. And now he marches on Winterfell, as you say, to oust the Boltons from Winterfell. I wish to join his cause, to rally the rest of the North behind Stannis Baratheon if I can."

The Royce lords were stunned with amazement at hearing the determination in the young lady's words. Ser Brynden merely smiled. "You are strong, dear niece. Your mother would be so very proud of you. I know I am. I will bring you home."

Turning to the Valemen, Sansa asked "And what of Petyr Baelish?"

Answering with a steely voice, Lord Yahn replied, "Leave him to us. Have no fear of him having any influence here, or on you, ever again."

*******************************************************************************************************************

Four weeks later found Sansa riding a shaggy garron in a small caravan of riders through the snow, just southeast of Winterfell. Lord Yahn had lent Ser Brynden a dozen men-at-arms to travel north as extra protection. They had sailed from Saltpan to White Harbor, and on up the river until it froze. Then they bought the ponies and supplies to continue their journey on to Winterfell. The snow had finally stopped falling. For the past week they had been holed up in a small village inn, waiting for the storm to subside. Word had come through stating that Stannis Baratheon had met the Boltons in battle and defeated them. Both Roose's and Ramsey's heads were placed on pikes outside the walls of Winterfell, it was said. With the Boltons defeated, Ser Brynden felt it would be prudent to make their way straight to Winterfell before another snowstorm settled in.

Sansa could not contain her excitement as the walls of her family's home loomed close. Riders and men milled about the east gate, and men also walked the parapets. Looking up, she watched as the Bolton's pink and blue flayed man banner was lowered from the tower, to be replaced with the Baratheon family crest of black and gold. Soon, she thought, soon my direwolf crest will fly up there as well.

As they approached the gate a number of armed men rode out to confront them. Ser Brynden and the others raised their hands in the air, indicating peace. They demanded the riders' identities. The northman frowned when he heard Ser Brynden's full name. "Tully? Lady Stark was a Tully first. Were you kin?" To Sansa's ears a northern accent had never sounded so good.

Gesturing to Sansa to ride close, Brynden replied, "Aye, Catelyn Stark was my niece. And this is her daughter, Sansa Stark." Sansa removed her hood so the northerners could see her clearly. The dark dye had been washed out of her hair completely; now it glowed auburn again. Many men recognized her. "Stark, Stark! Lady Stark! The Ned's daughter is back!" A cheer arose from the northerners. With a grin, the leader of the patrol led them inside the castle's walls. "Welcome home, m'lady."


	4. Bitter Cold, Biting Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell, from Stannis' point of view

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't very long; I am dividing their first meeting into two chapters instead.

CLASH! Stannis Baratheon's arms shook with fatigue as he barely parried the Bolton soldier's sword blow. His hands were numb; only his eyes telling him that he still held his sword. His legs ached with cold and fatigue, only his fading sense of balance convincing him that he still stood upright. Blood dripped from numerous slashes onto the trampled snow. Stannis realized that his strength had failed him; if he did not dispatch this Bolton soldier soon, the Bolton man would dispatch him. All around him a cacophony of sounds reverberated across the battlefield, through his helm, through his head. Horses whinnied, men cried out, steel striking steel echoed through the trees. Disoriented, weakened from cold and starvation, Stannis almost missed the blow the Bolton soldier struck at his right leg. As it was, even though he managed to partially block the enemy's sword, his strength had left him for good. The sword cut deep into Stannis' knee, going all the way to the bone. Stannis, seized by agony, shouted out as the intense pain ricocheted throughout his body.

As Stannis pitched forward, he grabbed the enemy's sword with his right hand while pulling out a dagger with his left. One chance left. He managed to thrust his dagger through the Bolton man's throat, all the way to the hilt. The Bolton soldier's blood poured out all over Stannis in a hot shower, mixing with his own blood as it dripped and flowed across his body. Then they both fell, but only one was dead. So far. Lying on the snow, Stannis breathed heavily as he watched dark red blood well up from the deep wound in his knee. Shivering, looking up at the darkening sky, despair settled over him like a funeral shroud. Unbidden, images of a smiling little boy with black hair and blue eyes, running around Storm's End with a cape on entered his mind. "Renly, why?" he whispered, as his eyes closed.

SWISH SWISH SWISH. Stannis awoke to a rocking, swaying sensation. He was moving, but not under his own power. Opening his eyes, he looked up at a cloudy, but bright sky as the trees seemed to move past him on either side. _No, that's not right. Trees do not move. Therefore I must be moving. Maester Cressen will be proud; I remember my logic lessons._ Confused, Stannis tried to sit up, but was stymied by the belts and furs that held him down. He must have made some sort of noise; his forward movement stopped, and a red-faced heavily bearded northman peered down at him.

"Your Grace, you're awake! Don't you go tryin' to move; we've got your bleeding stopped, and you're bundled up on a sled for the trip, t'keep you warm and still. We're most the way to Winterfell now. We should make the gates by nightfall."

Bewildered, Stannis frowned up at the man. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, mind filled with fog - words would not form. Understanding, the ruddy northerner bent down to give Stannis a drink of water. Better. Again words, come out, he thought. "Battle? Boltons?" he grunted out. Evidently that was coherent enough.

Smiling and laughing both, the northman stood up. "Aye Your Grace, we beat them, alright! The Freys rode out upon that lake and they all fell through the ice. Lord Manderly turned his men on the Boltons; Roose was forced to lead his troops out of Winterfell too. It was a close thing, that fight in the woods, but you won the day. Both Roose and Ramsey Bolton are dead. Now, don't try to get up or worry 'bout talking. We're almost there."

And then they were moving once again. Slightly irritated at the northerner's informal mannerisms, Stannis tried to stay awake. He made note of the hundreds of troops tromping through the snow behind him and to either side, the shaggy ponies scattered here and there, all pulling sleds filled with wounded men. After that, though, the rhythmic swaying of the sled proved to act as an effective sedative, and Stannis drifted off once more.

When Stannis woke next it was to be greeted by the sight of Winterfell's giant walls towering above him. The pony pulling his sled trotted through a large open gate into a huge outer courtyard. Men milled about, moving and shouting as they dashed this way and that. Other wounded fighters had already been offloaded from the snowsleds - healthy men carried those hurt in the battle up into the keep. His right leg ached and throbbed. To distract himself from that pain, and the pain coursing throughout his entire body, Stannis looked about, observing the chaotic scenes unfolding around him. Apparently his arrival did not go unnoticed - shouts filled the air. "The King! King Stannis is here! Stannis, Stannis!" Raising his eyes to view the tower above him, Stannis watched as the hideous Bolton flayed man banner was pulled down, and his own stag crest raised. Too tired and in too much pain to pay any more attention, Stannis closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep. Forever, or at least until Spring arrived.

Sleep proved difficult to attain though, as he was unbelted and carefully lifted from the sled by four sturdy clansmen. They carried the King into the Great Hall, inquiring after a healer. Doing his best to maintain an appearance of strength, Stannis stifled his cries of pain as best he could, muffling them by biting his tongue. He had to maintain some semblance of dignity, even though he was grievously injured and covered in blood. The hall echoed with the groans and cries of injured men. Hearing the sounds of so much pain and misery repeat themselves all around him, Stannis found it hard to believe his men had won the field. All he could see, hear or feel was agony. _This is not how victory is supposed to feel,_ he thought. _War is its own special hell._

Having been laid upon a table, Stannis felt hands begin to gently but efficiently remove his armor. Even so, he could not keep from crying out as they passed over his damaged leg. Out of breath, he opened his eyes briefly, long enough to see the worried looks of a healer and several others intently examining his leg. "Bring the King to the Lord's chamber. He needs privacy, a warm room and constant care if he is to survive at all." Too weak to even process that statement, all Stannis could hear now was a dull, constant buzzing. Nothing was clear, nothing made sense. He felt so empty inside, how might he ever regain himself?

The buzzing grew louder and louder, more insistent. Stark, he heard, Stark! More cheers. _Just like Robert,_ he thought. _Always it is Stark who is given credit, even though I won on this day._ Still, the cheering did not stop. Lady Sansa has returned, he heard one northern accent proclaim. _Huh. Interesting. Open your eyes again, Stormlander. No one else will do it for you._

It took a tremendous amount of willpower to simply open his eyes. Glancing about, Stannis saw a girl with long red hair approach his table, with an older knight escorting her. Where did she come from? That cannot be Catelyn, she is dead! Yet it would appear as though Catelyn Stark had risen from the dead. And then she spoke.

"Uncle Brynden," cried the red headed girl. Tears were falling down her cheeks. "Uncle Brynden, King Stannis must not die. After all we went through to get here, and what he has done to free my family's home and the North itself, he cannot die!" _Foolish, sentimental girl. You don't know me, you don't know what I've done. I am no hero. Better perhaps if I should pass on, then these people can go their own way._

Turning away, Stannis closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion to take him to that warm, dark, quiet place where there was no pain, no complaints, no worries. Not yet. He felt a hand touch his face, gently, while another hand inserted itself in his much larger, rougher hand. _She touches...me? No one ever does that willingly. EVER._

"Your Grace? Your Grace, I am Sansa Stark. My great-uncle Ser Brynden Tully helped me escape the Vale and return home. I have come here to rally all the North to your cause." The small hand squeezed his own encouragingly. Looking up, he saw the most amazing, blazing blue eyes that could possibly exist staring down at him. Red hair framed a beautiful young girl's face, currently showing stress and tears. Yet a strength he had never before observed in such a young person seemed to manifest itself in her demeanor. Tentatively, he closed his own large hand around hers. He barely had the energy to make that small motion. But it was enough to rally her spirit, it would seem.

"Uncle Brynden, the healers here are overwhelmed taking care of so many injured. I will tend to King Stannis personally. Look at him, he is starving, and terribly injured! I will do everything in my power to ensure his survival." Stannis used his last bit of energy to frown up at the girl. _Surely she knows I am the most miserable person in all of Westeros? She cannot mean that, no one does._ Not intimidated by his frown, the girl actually smiled! "Good! They say you are the most stubborn man in the world, that will only help." Spent, Stannis squeezed her hand one more time gently, then passed into blissful unconsciousness.


	5. A New Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets Stannis Baratheon, and is shocked by his current state of health. She also finds herself in a position of true authority.

Dismounting from her sturdy pony, Sansa found herself standing within the walls of Winterfell for the first time in nearly four years. She turned round and round in a circle, looking at the keep, the gates, the walls, the parapets, and all the people dashing across the courtyard. Overcome by a slew of emotions, she sniffled and wiped her eyes. Now was not the time to lose it, she thought to herself.

As she continued to gaze about, she thought of her parents and brothers and sister. _Mother, Father and Robb all died in the South, thanks to Lannister treachery. They can never come home. Arya is gone, probably dead. Theon killed Bran and Rickon right here. And Jon is sworn to Castle Black forever. How is it that I, out of all of us, am the last Stark? I am not strong enough, I'm no wolf._ Knowing it was ridiculous, Sansa felt like a fraud, as though she did not belong there. Unable to contain her feelings of inadequacy or her despair at the loss of her family, Sansa choked up.

Ser Brynden Tully walked to her left side and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. "You are home now, girl, truly home. I know what you're thinking. Why you? Why not the rest of your family? Why did you live, you ask yourself. You don't think you're worthy of even entering this castle, do you? Let alone bear the mantle of the direwolf." He turned her into his embrace, letting her snuffle and shake against him.

"I've got news for you, dear niece. Those questions of why will never be answered. But they don't have to be. Put them behind you. Remember your parents, your siblings. Honor them. Take up your position as a Stark, because you are a Stark, and you are worthy of it. You have survived a gauntlet that no one should ever have to be put through, especially at such a young age. You can do this."

Sansa stepped back just a little from her great-uncle, enough so that she could look up at him. "Uncle Brynden, I don't know what to do, or how to lead. My education ended when I was only eleven. I never learned how to manage a household, a budget, a castle. All I ever learned was how to read and write poetry, recite the lineage of great houses and sew a straight stitch. I was supposed to become the dutiful wife of a golden haired prince, nothing more. I am not even remotely prepared to run Winterfell."

"Sansa, no lord runs a castle alone, not a single one. They have stewards and castellans, knights and servants aplenty. You are not alone, and you will have all the help you need to learn the ins and outs of managing this estate. Listen to the people around you, both high-born and low - I know your father did. Regardless, you do not have to solve this dilemma right now. Let's get inside, out of the cold, and find out who is currently in charge, shall we?"

Nodding, Sansa wiped her face again and turned to walk towards the keep proper, Ser Brynden right next to her. There had been some shouting a few minutes earlier, but she had been listening to her great-uncle and thus did not pay attention to the previous commotion. As they ascended the steps, it turned out her arrival itself was causing a commotion within the great hall. Entering the great hall, Sansa heard a number of men call out. "A Stark has returned! Lady Sansa Stark is here!" A ragged cheer rose up from the men within the hall. Most were too tired or injured to do more than raise their heads and call out. Sansa stopped, stunned, just inside the giant doors. She could not process the scene laid out before her - there were so many injured men set up on the trestle tables and pallets on the floor, there was hardly room to walk.

"Lady Sansa? Is that truly you?" A voice sounded off to her left. Turning, Sansa was greeted with the sight of a mountain clan leader, Lord Hugo "Big Bucket" Wull, working his way across the long floor to her. She remembered his visits to Winterfell when she was a child. He had the largest belly of any man she had ever seen, with the possible exception of Lord Wyman Manderly. "You have the look of your lady mother, the Ned's Lady Catelyn."

Smiling, truly smiling, Sansa stretched her hands out to greet the old clan leader. "Lord Wull, I am so happy to see familiar northern faces again! When we heard King Stannis had won the battle against the Boltons, I realized that I had to get here as fast as possible. Where is His Grace? I should meet with him, I think, and soon."

The smile fell away from Wull's face. Turning, he gestured towards a table near the dais, where several men had gathered. Between them Sansa could make out a long figure lying prone and still upon the table. The men appeared to be removing the figure's armor when a harsh cry of pain sounded from the tabletop.

Lord Hugo looked thoughtful as he spoke. "We had never seen a king before this one came stomping up through our mountains, all grumpy-like, looking for men to free Deepwood Motte from those wretched Ironborn. We don't think much of Southroners - they are too soft, and only interested in fancy words and fancy clothes and fancy food. This king is different, not like any soft lord we'd seen before. He's the opposite of soft, he's harder than iron. No humor in him, no patience for foolishness. He eats no different than any commoner, wears no different clothing. He won't use fancy words. In fact, he doesn't much like to talk at all. Trying to impress him gets the opposite reaction. But we went with him, because he's hard, he's tough, and he was right. We went with King Stannis to kick out those Ironborn from a castle that isn't theirs. And then this king gave it back to the Glovers, just like that. Said we had to kick the Boltons out of Winterfell too, to free the Ned's youngest daughter. Turns out it was the steward's daughter that was married off to that bastard Ramsey. But still we fought. We fought for the North, for Winterfell, and for this strange Southron king who doesn't quit."

"The King was wounded terribly in the Wolfswood two days ago, Lady Sansa. Like most of his Southron men, he was near to starving before the battle was met, and suffering from the cold as well. These Southroners don't belong in the North; they can't handle our cruel weather, our harsh land. Most of Stannis' Southron knights died before or during the battle; they were too weak to fight well. That he still lives at all is nothing short of a miracle, and a testament to his stubborn will."

With anguish written plain upon her face, Sansa grabbed her great-uncle's hand and tugged him toward the table where Stannis Baratheon was lain out. She heard more calls from all around her - "Sansa Stark is here, Lady Sansa has returned!" - but she could only focus on the still figure laid before her. He was so thin, so gaunt! The man's face looked more like a skull with bloody skin stretched tight across the bone. Even under the mask of dried, flaking blood that covered his head, face and neck, she could tell that he was very pale, and barely breathing.

"Uncle Brynden, King Stannis must not die. After all we went through to get here, and what he has done to free my family's home and the North itself, he cannot die!" Openly weeping now, Sansa approached the king. He had regarded her briefly, then turned his head away and closed his eyes. His expression was one of resigned hopelessness - he had given up.

Heartbroken, Sansa felt she had to do something, even though she had never met this man before. He was the key to the North's future! Stepping between two of the men tending to Stannis, Sansa hesitantly reached out her right hand and gingerly touched his angular face and square jaw. His skin felt so cold to her! Looking down and to the side, she could see that the hand closest to her was not injured. Softly, Sansa placed her other hand in his own large but bony one. Proprieties be damned, she had to let him know that she, a Stark, had returned to Winterfell to help further his cause in the North.

"Your Grace? Your Grace, I am Sansa Stark. My great-uncle Ser Brynden Tully helped me escape the Vale and return home. I have come here to rally all the North to your cause." Sansa gazed down upon the bone-thin face of the King and squeezed her hand around his, hoping to gain his attention. It worked. Through her tear-blurred vision, she could see he was looking at her now with deep set, dark blue eyes, currently expressing pain and confusion. She felt him respond though, as his fingers closed around her hand, just a little bit.

Facing Ser Brynden, Sansa straightened up and spoke with determination. "Uncle Brynden, the healers here are overwhelmed taking care of so many injured. I will tend to King Stannis personally. Look at him, he is starving, and terribly injured! I will do everything in my power to ensure his survival."

Buoyed by this new found mission and purpose, Sansa turned her attention back to King Stannis. He was still awake, looking up at her and frowning, scowling even! Sansa thought to herself, _Ah, if someone is angry or irritated they are more likely to fight back. Right now I need him, we all need this King, to fight back against The Stranger._ Encouraged by his frown, Sansa smiled down at Stannis. "Good! They say you are the most stubborn man in the world, that will only help." She felt his hand grip hers one more time, then his eyes closed and his face relaxed as he slipped into unconsciousness.

At that point, Sansa felt her uncle pull her back away from the table. "Sansa, come back now, let the healers do their work, especially now that he is unconscious." Nodding in agreement, Sansa glanced up at her kinsman. Pointing, Ser Brynden led her over to an alcove where Big Bucket Wull had last been seen. "You need to speak with the clan leaders and lords that are here, Sansa. Affirming your identity and taking your place as their liege must happen quickly, if it is to happen at all."

Walking over to the small gathering, Sansa took note that Lord Wull was indeed located in the alcove. She also immediately recognized Lord Wyman Manderly, his portly frame seated on a large bench. She could make out other mountain clansmen as well, and two large men that were obviously brothers. Perhaps the Umbers? A short, stout young woman wielding a battle axe also stood among them. I bet that is a she-bear, one of the Mormonts, Sansa assumed to herself. Nervous, feeling even younger than her fifteen short years, Sansa approached the group, grateful that it was the Blackfish who escorted her.

Wyman Manderly's eyes grew wide as Sansa approached the group, and he stood straight up from his bench, looking as though he had seen a ghost. "Is that a phantom I see before me? Lady Catelyn, her specter, risen from the dead?" The others stopped talking and turned to see what had prompted Manderly's exclamation.

Sansa managed to maintain her composure as she addressed the portly Lord of White Harbor. "No, Lord Manderly, not my mother, but Sansa Stark. My great-uncle Ser Brynden helped me leave the Eyrie and return to the North. Upon learning of King Stannis' victory, we hastened here to Winterfell from a village just east of here."

"We had heard that you had disappeared on the day of King Joffrey's wedding and subsequent death. Cersei went mad with rage, hoping to put you on trial for her son's death. How did you get out of King's Landing?" Wyman Manderly's eyes showed a great deal of curiousity, and knowledge too.

Not desiring a prolonged conversation, Sansa gave them an abbreviated version of the events that led her to the Eyrie, her time spent there, the discovery of Roose Bolton's letter and her escape thanks to Brynden Tully and Yahn Royce. She really wanted to get to the heart of the matter - King Stannis' standing in the North. Before she could speak on it though, Hothor Umber interrupted her.

"Your brother's bannermen all proclaimed Robb the King in the North. I know you were there, Ser Blackfish, so don't tell me it didn't happen. Sansa Stark is the only Stark left alive that we know of, she should be our Queen! We don't need to bend our knee to a Southron again." Several other men echoed his sentiments vociferously.

Startled, Sansa took a step back, to lean against her strong uncle who stood right behind her. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "Remember who YOU are." With that, Sansa nodded, took a deep breath, stepped forward and addressed all the northern bannermen gathered around her.

"I was with my father, your liege lord Eddard Stark, when he discovered the truth of Cersei's treachery and deception in King's Landing. After King Robert died, my father wrote a letter to Stannis Baratheon, detailing the true parentage of Cersei's children, and requested Stannis to come to King's Landing to take his place as king, as Robert's one true heir. The Lannisters intercepted that letter; Stannis never received it. How do I know this? Cersei showed it to me, to taunt me before she had my father beheaded right in front of me at the Sept of Baelor. My father died supporting Stannis Baratheon as the rightful king."

Pausing for just a moment to let that sink in, Sansa continued. "You all know the right of succession. If there are no trueborn children, the oldest brother is next in line for a lordship, or kingship. That is the law. Ser Brynden tells me that my own brother Robb supported Stannis as king first, before the northern bannermen named him King in the North. Robb was well-versed in the law of the land. I believe that if Robb and my mother had been made aware of my father's support for Stannis, they too would have supported Stannis without reservation."

Turning to face the Umber brothers, Sansa addressed them directly. "Moments ago you proclaimed me the last Stark. Do you acknowledge my claim as the oldest trueborn Stark, as the heir to Winterfell, and as your liege?" Surprised, the Umbers dropped to one knee immediately. "Aye, my lady, we do!"

Steeling herself, Sansa spoke to them all with determination. "King Stannis is the rightful king of Westeros, by right of birth and the law. He came north to support Castle Black when no one else would. He rallied you, my mountain clansmen, to free Deepwood Motte, not for himself, but to return it to the Glovers, whose rightful home it is. You all declared for Stannis, except you Lord Manderly, and marched with him here, to free Winterfell. The Boltons and Freys are destroyed. All the North must unite now, or else the Lannisters will turn their attention our way."

"Lord Manderly, do you personally accept me as the rightful heir to Winterfell, and as your liege? And, do you accept Stannis Baratheon as the rightful king?"

Wyman Manderly drew himself up, and viewed Sansa with a new-found respect. "I do, Lady Stark."

"I also bring you word that the Lords of the Vale have banished Petyr Baelish from the Eyrie and the Vale. They have declared all the strength of the Vale for Stannis as rightful king. The Lannisters would never dare try to invade the Vale; it cannot be taken."

"And so now I ask you, my lords and bannermen, do you take me as your liege, as Lady Stark of Winterfell? And do you support Stannis Baratheon as our one true king? Do you acknowledge his claim to the Iron Throne, and will you throw your support and troops behind him when the time is come?" By this time a large crowd had gathered around Sansa - several hundred people were watching and listening. "Aye my lady, Aye!" Shouts echoed throughout the hall. "Hail Sansa, Lady of Winterfell, Hail Stannis, the one true King!"

A well-loved, gravelly voice whispered in her ear. "Well done, niece, well done indeed!"


	6. Bitter Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis awakes, and he and Sansa have their first coherent conversation.

One week after her arrival at Winterfell, Sansa Stark stood outside by the Eastern Gate watching Lord Manderly's party wind their way down the King's Road towards White Harbor. Water dripped from the icicles hanging down along the various rooflines; for the North, the past week had turned out to be surprisingly warm, and the snow and ice were melting. Manderly wished to get back to White Harbor before the snowstorms returned. He promised to send more supplies back to Winterfell to see them through the oncoming winter. Lord Wyman had assisted Sansa in identifying the few remaining Bolton sympathizers still hiding within Winterfell's walls. Working with Sansa and the mountain clansmen, he also helped her come up with a plan for rebuilding Winterfell. While the great keep had been reroofed by Roose Bolton, there was still much work to be done. It would take many months, if not a few years, before Winterfell would be completely restored. Now, as he departed for White Harbor, Sansa reflected on the work she would have to shoulder for herself.

Walking back to the great keep, Sansa wondered if Manderly had been keeping some vital information from her. She knew he was wilely and sly, but she did not doubt his loyalty to her and the Stark family. Sansa did, however, find it rather odd that Lord Manderly opted to depart before King Stannis regained consciousness.

Thoughts of the king turned Sansa's mood more melancholic. He had been unconscious for the past week now, without waking once. The healers assured Sansa that this was normal, and probably for the better. It meant that he was not feeling any pain, and they would not have to use any milk of the poppy on him.

Sansa had spent a great deal of time with the healers and maesters taking care of the wounded soldiers, learning to tend wounds and change bandages, watch for infections and treat them accordingly. She felt that, as the Lady of Winterfell, one of her duties was to see to the health and wellbeing of its populace; that included treating the sick and wounded. However, she had spent most of her spare time in the Lord's chamber, where Stannis Baratheon was quartered. The king was never alone; if Sansa or a healer was not with him, then a servant was. She wanted to make sure infection did not have a chance to take hold. As it was, none of the king's wounds exhibited any signs of infection; most of them were healing rapidly.

The one exception was Stannis' sword injury on his right leg. The Bolton soldier's sword had cut deeply into the side of his leg, right at the knee. It had cut muscle, severed several tendons, and dug into bone. The maesters had informed Sansa just this morning that the injury was permanent.

Sansa had tried to keep her composure. "Does that mean he will lose his leg - will you have to cut it off?" She was horrified at that possibility. A warrior king, missing his leg? She tried to banish that thought from her mind.

"No, my lady, the king will keep his leg. There have been no signs of infection, and the wound is starting to close. These are good signs. However, we cannot mend severed tendons. King Stannis will eventually be able to stand and walk on his leg, but he will never regain full strength or mobility. In all honesty, he will probably have to use a cane for the rest of his life." With that pronouncement, the maesters had taken their leave of a somewhat rattled Sansa.

Now that Lord Manderly was gone, Sansa turned her thoughts towards more mundane matters. Entering the keep, she made her way to the large, warm kitchens, redolent with smells of root vegetables, soups, baking bread and roasting meat. Even though the hot water piped throughout Winterfell kept the entire keep fairly warm, the kitchens were warmer still. She loved it in there, hectic though it may be, with servants preparing meals for several hundred people every day.

Her current target was a small side hearth where bones and ground barley simmered in a pot. Sansa poured a small tankard full of the barley-bone broth and departed for the king's rooms. Although Stannis had yet to wake up, the healers said they should try to get sustenance into him several times a day. Hence, the mixture concocted was one the mountain clansmen had insisted kept them hale during the long march.

Sansa earlier had asked Artos Flint why all the clansmen stayed healthy, yet the Southroners had starved. "Barley, my lady. Those Southroners won't eat it - they think it's hardly fit even for their horses. They didn't have enough rations, and their giant destriers died in the cold. Eating nothing but horse meat is like eating nothing but rabbit. You feel full, but the starvation comes along anyway. And the king wouldn't eat any more, or any differently, than his common soldiers. They all lost too much weight."

When Sansa arrived at the king's room, the servant who had been stationed there told Sansa that his sleep had become increasingly restless as the morning progressed. "It's as if he's been having dreams, or nightmares even, m'lady. His Grace has been thrashing about the bed in his sleep."

Worried, Sansa placed the mug of barley-broth on a sideboard and approached the king's bedside. She prayed that he hadn't hurt himself unknowingly. Indeed, he tossed and turned upon his pillow, muttering incoherent words and phrases. "Fire, shadow, Shireen..." were the only words that she understood clearly. She seated herself on a stool and held Stannis' uninjured hand, hoping to calm him. Her experience gained while taking care of SweetRobin had not been in vain, after all, as Stannis' breathing slowed and steadied, and his thrashing settled down considerably. Unsure what else she could do, Sansa sang an old folk tune, one about a northerner who had gone to sea, only to discover he truly missed the deep woods of his beloved North. Finishing the song, Sansa realized a pair of deep blue eyes were regarding her warily - the king had woken up.

Startled and flustered, Sansa stood abruptly. "Your Grace...I, um...I came to check on your well being, and to bring you some hot soup, if you were awake..." Turning from him, she picked up the mug and walked back towards the bed. Hands shaking a little, ( _Why am I so nervous now?_ ) Sansa brought the mug to Stannis.

Stannis merely frowned at her. He did attempt to push himself up to a sitting position though, and she heard a grunt of pain as he did. "Oh, your wrist! Your Grace, let me help you." Sansa had momentarily forgotten that his left wrist had appeared swollen, possibly sprained. She hurried over to his left side and helped him sit up, placing pillows behind him to prop him up against the headboard. The king did not speak at all during this, but his foul expression clearly displayed his displeasure at having to endure such an indignity.

Man-servants had bathed the king, trimmed his hair and beard, and dressed him in an undyed baggy flaxen shirt, all while he was unconscious. He looked even more gaunt than when he had been brought in from the battlefield, and the shirt did nothing to hide the bones showing clearly through his skin. Considering the length of his frame, and knowledge of the Baratheon brothers in general, Sansa figured that Stannis would need to regain at least five stone to reach a healthy weight. That would take months and months. She needed to convince him to eat. At least the barley soup would be a good start.

"Shall we try again?" Sansa asked. She held the mug, which Stannis attempted to take with his good hand. She could see that he needed help, so she supported it while he drank. Drink it down he did though, every bit, sounding like a horse at a water trough. All the while he did not stop looking at her, his face completely unreadable. Sansa had no idea what to say now, she was too confounded to think clearly. Stannis saved her the trouble.

The king's hoarse voice seized Sansa's complete attention. "It's warm here, must be Winterfell. I'm clean, bandaged, safe to say I'm not a prisoner. Red hair, Tully eyes. You look like Catelyn Stark. Too young. She's dead now, anyways, thanks to the Freys. You must be Sansa Stark. I remember you, I think, when they pulled me here to Winterfell. Pain, I remember that..." Trailing off, Stannis looked away for a moment, frowning, clearly trying to recall some details. Looking down and focusing again, he tried to move his right leg, hissed, tried again, grimaced and gave up. Addressing Sansa rather abruptly, Stannis said, "Tell me, Stark girl, how long have I been here? And why are you here?"

"Your Grace, you were brought here one week ago, two days after the battle in the Wolfswood. My great-uncle, Ser Brynden Tully and I arrived here from a nearby village at the same time, as soon as we heard your forces had defeated the Boltons." Sansa was rather proud that she kept her voice steady.

"You didn't answer my second question. _Why_ are you here?" Leaning back into the pillows, scowl firmly in place, the king clearly required an answer to his question.

So much for steady. How could she remain steady and calm under the weight of that intense stare? She tried to give Stannis a short version of her past year, as she knew he was tiring quickly. "Your Grace, I was removed from Kings Landing by Petyr Baelish on the day Joffrey died. Later I learned that Lord Baelish and Lady Olenna had conspired together to poison Joffrey. Petyr took me to the Vale, to my aunt Lysa. He married her, then he threw her out through the Moon Door and convinced the Vale lords to name him Lord Protector of the Vale. He called me his bastard daughter, Alayne Stone. Then he offered me as a bride to Harrold Hardyng, who, as Robert Arryn's heir, will probably inherent the Eyrie. I found out that Baelish had also offered me in marriage to Ramsey Bolton. It was then I knew I had to escape. Ser Brynden found out that Petyr had a 'daughter' at the Gates of the Moon, and traveled there with Yahn Royce to investigate. He recognized me immediately. Shortly thereafter we left the Vale to come north. I had heard you were marching on Winterfell; as a Stark, I wanted to rally all the North to your cause."

"And tell me, young Stark girl, have you done so?" Stannis inquired rather cynically. Straightening, Sansa looked him straight in the eye. "Yes, Your Grace, I believe I have, even Lord Manderly supports you now."

"Manderly!" The king swore a bitter oath at that. He snarled and bared his teeth in rage. "Is he still here? I will have his head on a pike, as he did to my Hand."

Sansa stepped back in the face of such vehement hostility and vitriol. Stannis' eyes blazed with both hatred and grief. She needed to turn away, but could not. "No Your Grace, Lord Manderly has already departed for White Harbor. Had I but known..."

Stannis finished her sentence for her. "You could not have stopped him anyway. No matter, justice will find him, I swear it."

Shifting in the bed, the king growled in pain. Groaning, he levied a half-hearted glare at his bandaged leg, hidden under the blankets. "Tell me now, tell me truthfully. What is the extent of damage to my leg?"

"I think perhaps the healers and the maesters should..." Sansa didn't get to finish, as the king cut her off. "No. You WILL tell me. I am familiar with harsh and bitter truths. Changing the messenger does not change the message. Tell me."

Digging up courage where she thought none remained, Sansa told Stannis the truth. "The injury is permanent, Your Grace. You will keep your leg, and be able to walk on it again, but it will never have full strength or mobility."

Showing no emotion, the king had one more question. "What of my men, how many survived the battle?"

"Of the northerners, Your Grace, we had some deaths and injuries. About 150 of the mountain clansmen died, and 200 more are injured. Of the southrons who came to the North with you, none survived." Sansa truly wanted to find a quiet safe spot now, for she feared what his reaction might be. She needn't have worried.

Turning away, stony face betraying nothing, Stannis simply told her, "Leave me." Sansa wasted no time obeying that clear order, and quit the room.


	7. Adjustments and Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis POV.

_Flames flicker, shadows jump. Men chant. A splash of red. A little girl screams. Cold. Hot. Ice. Fire. Flames. Evil. Red sparks fly, shadows shriek, darkness descends._

Stannis awoke slowly from his disturbing, disjointed dream, to a girl singing a wistful, melancholic tune. Singing? His right hand was warm too - another hand was holding his own. Opening his eyes as the song ended, he noted a red-haired girl sitting by his bed, holding his hand. She jumped up suddenly, appearing very embarrassed. He could not make any sense of her words, but he smelled something. Something good. Food? His stomach growled. Trying to push himself up, Stannis quickly realized that his left wrist had been injured, and he could not suppress a small grunt of pain. The girl jogged around to his other side and assisted him in his attempt to sit up. Unaccustomed to anyone touching or helping him, he glowered at her as she held the mug. Hunger winning over, he drank down the salty, savory broth, trying to make sense of his situation.

Warmth, bandages, clean bed. When had he last been warm? Looking at the girl, he saw a clear resemblance to Catelyn Stark. He remembered being brought into the great hall, and that the girl had been holding has hand then, too. Finding his voice, Stannis worked through his thoughts out loud, pleased that she nodded in agreement. So, his forces had won the battle, he had somehow survived and been brought back to Winterfell, and Sansa Stark had found her way home. Trying to move his right leg proved to be impossible, and painful as well. He would address that shortly. For now, though, doubts and suspicion flared in his mind. "Tell me, Stark girl, how long have I been here? And why are you here?"

Stannis listened as the Stark girl told him her tale. Annoyed, he had to prompt her a second time to get her to explain the reason behind her return to the North. Rally the North behind him? He was skeptical, to say the least. All reason left his mind to be replaced only by hot rage when Sansa mentioned Lord Manderly's name. Judging by the way she jumped back, Stannis only then realized he had snarled and bared his teeth like a feral savage. He _felt_ feral and savage at that instant, desiring nothing more than to see Manderly's head rolling on the ground and to savor the coppery taste of hot blood, to satisfy his thirst for vengeance.

Looking down at his leg gave Stannis the time he needed to cool his blood-lust somewhat. Pain emanating from his knee also forced him to focus on both his injuries and the battle's outcome. "Tell me now, tell me truthfully. What is the extent of damage to my leg?" Sansa wavered, he could tell, but if she would run this castle and the North, she had better learn to deal with difficult questions. Stannis pushed her again, and received the answer he both expected and dreaded. "The injury is permanent, Your Grace. You will keep your leg, and be able to walk on it again, but it will never have full strength or mobility." He did not want to acknowledge the sympathy showing in her eyes.

His energy was fading, but Stannis still needed the answer to one more crucial question first. "...Of the southrons who came to the North with you, none survived." The girl's voice shook as she delivered the devastating news. He could not stand for anyone's company any longer. "Leave me." The door closed quietly as the girl left his room.

All his men, gone! As for himself, now, a crippled king! Stannis took several deep, shuddering breaths, trying to work past the swirl of emotions threatening to break him. No southron support remained now, only the North. His loyal Hand, Lord Davos, dead. Shireen, status unknown. Even Melisandre, to whom he had come to rely on far too much, he could not tell. In fact, the tenuous link that had connected them, even across the hundreds of miles of snowy wasteland, seemed to have vanished.

Stannis had known deep down that her dark magic harmed him severely, as if Melisandre had stolen a part of himself away. Even so, for all those months he had used her as she had most assuredly used him. After he departed the Wall for the mountains, he had sensed, late at night usually, a strange thread of connection back towards her. He could not describe it, but he was aware that it existed. Until now. Now as he searched and grasped, he could not find any sense of connection to Melisandre at all. He didn't think too hard on the fact that he was not bothered by her absence, or the absence of that link.

Exhaustion creeping in, Stannis closed his eyes. His last thoughts before sleep took command were of the red-headed girl who had held his hand and touched him gently when he had been in such pain and despair. Stannis then fell asleep with a northern folk tune playing in his head.

When Stannis woke next, he realized that night had fallen, as candles had been lit and the shades drawn across the windows. Low voices also carried from near the hearth - he was not alone. Looking across the room, he could see the Stark girl speaking softly with a tall, gray-haired knight. "You do realize that bringing a young girl into a sleeping man's bedchamber is not very appropriate, don't you, Ser?" _That_ got their attention. Jumping up, Sansa and the older man walked over to address the king. "Your Grace, this is my great-uncle, Ser Brynden Tully. I have named him Master of Arms for Winterfell."

"The Blackfish himself. Your niece told me how you came to fetch her from the Vale. That was wise, Ser Brynden." Stannis realized the girl would need any familial support she could find, and right now Brynden Tully was all she had.

Sansa carried a tray with soup and bread over to the king, who devoured it rather quickly. He did not use his left hand at all, which did not go unnoticed by Sansa or Ser Brynden. "Your Grace, allow me to look at your wrist. You haven't been using it, and it still appears a bit swollen."

"Why? Are you suddenly a trained healer now?" No longer hungry, Stannis was not interested in cooperating. Still, the girl persisted, even under his baleful stare. "No Your Grace, but I have been tending to your wounds since you came here. However, we did not wrap your wrist while you were unconscious, as you lay still for many days. Please allow me to check it." Huffing with annoyance, Stannis held out his left arm to Sansa, who took it with both hands.

Stannis slowly relaxed as the girl gently worked his hand and wrist, feeling the bones, and lightly massaged the muscles in his hand, wrist and forearm. In fact, he found her touch rather pleasing, as it seemed to ease his pain and discomfort. He settled back against the pillows, still in a semi-seated position, and felt the tension melt away from his body as she continued her gentle ministrations. This was a new sensation to him, and not one he wished to end soon.

Glancing up, Sansa realized that her treatment had calmed and relaxed the king considerably. She smiled and continued, until Ser Brynden interrupted her. "Sansa, his wrist needs to be wrapped now, to keep it stable. Here, I will do it; I've had plenty of experience."

The last thing Stannis wanted was for Ser Brynden to take over from his young niece. "Let her do it, Ser Brynden, under your instruction. She will not learn as well by simply observing." Sansa wrapped Stannis' wrist under supervision, then set herself on a stool. Stannis missed her gentle touch, but knew he could not indulge any longer, as it would be inappropriate in any case. Furthermore, he had many questions to ask of Brynden Tully.

"Tell me of the Valemen, Ser Brynden. What is their current position?" Stannis needed to know if he had any support beyond the North.

"The Lords of the Vale have cast Petyr Baelish out; his life is forfeit if he should ever show his face within the Vale again, even at his small keep in the Fingers. They have universally declared their support for you as King of Westeros, and repudiated the Lannisters and Tommen as king. Right now the Lannisters would not dare assault the Vale; they cannot take it by force."

"Your Grace, it would seem that Peter Baelish is behind much of the chaos that has occurred over the past several years. He even convinced Lysa to poison Jon Arryn, using Tears of Lys that he provided. Lysa was twisted, and believed Baelish loved her. She was willing to go along with anything he asked, including murdering Robert's Hand, her husband." Brynden appeared slightly sad as thought about his niece's decline and downfall. "After marrying Lysa, he kissed Sansa within Lysa's line of sight, causing Lysa to go mad with jealousy. I think they both had replaced Sansa with Catelyn in their minds, to some degree. According to Sansa, Petyr pushed Lysa out the Moon Door, then convinced the Vale Lords to name him Lord Protector of the Vale, as he was now young Robert Arryn's stepfather."

"Baelish! I should have known that he was involved. How did he know, though, what Jon Arryn and I had deduced concerning Cersei's children?" Stannis had distrusted Peter Baelish when they served together on Robert's smallcouncil. Now he second-guessed himself, wondering if he had given away his suspicions unknowingly.

Another uncomfortable thought came to Stannis' mind. "Lady Sansa, tell me, did Baelish...did he dishonor you?" Stannis did not like asking that question, but there it was, and it required an honest answer.

Turning red, clearly embarrassed by this question, Sansa quickly replied, "No, Your Grace. He intended to marry me off to Harrold Hardyng instead." Then the girl's expression changed; obviously she had more to say.

"Your Grace, Lord Baelish also betrayed my father to the Lannisters. Father went to Petyr, thinking that his affection for my mother would work in Father's favor. He was wrong. My father had already written a letter to you, inviting you to come to Kings Landing and take your rightful place as king, as Robert's only true heir. Cersei showed me the letter; the Lannisters had intercepted it somehow, so it never reached Dragonstone." Sansa retained her composure, for which Stannis was thankful. He did not like to be in the company of weeping women.

Frowning then, Stannis recalled other betrayals. "Why, then, if your father supported me, did your brother Robb declare himself King in the North?" Stannis' temper flared. "And why did Lady Catelyn choose to treat with my brother Renly? His claim to the Iron Throne was false."

Flustered, Sansa tried to answer him. "I don't know, Your Grace. I was only eleven years old. I never spoke with my mother or brother again after I left Winterfell with my father and King Robert."

Stannis became more enraged at the mention of his brother. "If my fool brother hadn't gone North in the first place none of this mess would have happened! He never should have named your naive father Hand. Your father managed to get himself killed because of his ignorance. Then your mother and brother betrayed my rightful claim. Thousands have died because of their acts of folly."

White-faced, Sansa jumped to her feet. "And I also wonder now why my father supported you at all!" She dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her with a loud thump.

No one had ever back-talked to Stannis in that manner before - he wasn't quite sure how to react. A snicker from the corner broke through his anger. Ser Brynden was desperately trying not to laugh, and failing miserably. "Well, Ser Blackfish, why do you find her insolent manner to be so amusing?"

Sobering, Ser Brynden answered thoughtfully. "Because she was used as a pawn and held as a prisoner of the Lannisters for nearly three years. They forced Sansa to denounce her family and herself, denigrated her, even beat her naked in front of the whole court. She was not allowed to speak her mind, not even allowed to think freely. Petyr nearly brainwashed Sansa into believing she really was his bastard daughter. So yes, I find it amusing, and heartening, to see Sansa stand up for herself, even to you. And now, Your Grace, I bid you good evening."

Realizing his outburst had come off as petulant and churlish, Stannis was not about to apologize outright. Still, he had parting words for Ser Brynden. "Your niece, Ser Brynden, she may look like a Tully, but she is no floppy fish. That girl is all wolf."

The next morning a serving girl brought Stannis his breakfast, consisting of the same barley-bone broth with some meat, bread, and a new addition of liver, still raw, that had been mashed to a paste. "What do I look like, a pregnant woman?", he asked the girl. Blanching, the girl answered him haltingly. "N-No, Your G-Grace, the healers said the liver is needed for h-healing." Then she fled the room. Sighing, he sniffed, tasted it, and decided to eat it first. Might as well, he'd eaten cats and rats after all.

He briefly wondered why the Stark girl had not been the one to see him first, then remembered the hurtful words he had flung in her direction the previous night. _Serves you right, Stormlander._ Still, Stannis found he missed her presence. Dismissing that feeling as fruitless folly, he finished his meal, then wondered how to spend his time. He could not get out of bed alone; man-servants helped with his more base bodily functions and bathing. A book would be nice, if the library hadn't burnt down.

Staring at the wall for an hour reciting the lineages of the Great Houses of Westeros only provided so much distraction. Thinking he may have to dredge up his knowledge of Essos geography, Stannis jumped slightly when a knock sounded at his door. Two healers entered the room, one carrying a set of wooden crutches. Lady Sansa trailed close behind them, looking at him with both caution and a hint of defiance. _Ah, there she is, don't scare her off._

One of the healers approached Stannis. "Your Grace, we are going to check your wounds, and then have you stand and practice using these crutches. It is time for you to begin to exercise, you will build up your strength faster that way."

"Fine, but Lady Sansa said she has been the one to tend my cuts; let her continue to do so now, under your supervision. As the Lady of Winterfell she will need the practice for future patients." If anyone was to touch him, he'd rather it be the girl, as opposed to the healer with the clammy damp hands. Sansa approached his bedside with hesitation, so he tried to put on his most neutral expression. He did not want to frighten her or drive her off.

"We need you to take your shirt off, Your Grace." Shirt removed, Stannis felt strangely exposed, and definitely self-conscious. Never a vain man, he was nonetheless painfully aware of all the ribs that showed clearly through his skin. Not wanting to see her reaction, he watched her hands at first as she gently removed the bandages one at a time. Again, her warm, soft hands and gentle touch seemed to relax him, when always before anyone touching him would cause tension to build. Looking now at her face, Stannis could see Sansa was concentrating fully on the task at hand. She was patient and thorough, taking the time to clean and re-bandage his wounds with care. When finished, she handed him his shirt, which he managed to pull on by himself. He found that he craved that touch from her again. Daring to meet his eyes, Sansa smiled shyly at Stannis and then stepped aside for the healers.

Walking twenty feet across the room and back again with the crutches proved to be far more of a challenge than Stannis imagined. By the time he returned to his bed, he was sweating and his legs were shaking. Collapsing on the bed, he was exhausted. And discouraged. The healers, however, felt that his first trip out of bed was highly successful. They stressed that he not put any weight on his leg for at least another month, and keep the wound bandaged. They also told the king that he needed to get up and move about a little more every day, to build his strength.

The healers also insisted that Stannis eat nearly double his normal daily intake of food, basically six meals a day. "Are you trying to turn me into Mace Tyrell, a glutton?" Never one to eat in excess, Stannis did not wish to begin now.

Sansa replied before either healer could even formulate an answer. "Please, My King, you weigh at least five stone less than a man your size ought. And, you need the extra nutrition to heal and build muscle. That will take months anyway. Winterfell can provide. Please."

 _My King?_ "Aye Wolf-Girl, as you say." Eyes widening at the new moniker, Sansa smiled again and then served the king. Stannis ate with an appetite that he had always suppressed, one that could rival Robert's. The next four weeks continued in much the same fashion. He ate, he slept, he walked the hallways with crutches. And he gained back a bit of weight and strength.

Stannis often spent his evenings advising Sansa on matters of managing a castle, when she had questions, or discussing castle defenses and training with Ser Brynden. The three often conferred in a small den located on the same floor as their individual chambers. That room contained numerous chairs, tables and couches. Occasionally they were joined by the Wull, Artos Flint, the Umber brothers or other mountain clan leaders, usually to discuss disputes among the men.

Never a social person, Stannis would go for two or three days at a time without speaking. He didn't feel the need to fill empty space with empty words. He also thought morosely on occasion about how could he possibly lead men if he were to remain a cripple. He would invariably fall into a miserable state and snap at Sansa or Ser Brynden during those times, if he deigned to even acknowledge them. Boredom eventually prompted him to teach Sansa to play cyvasse. She also continued to tend to his injuries, massaging his aching leg to help speed the healing process. He would not say so, but Stannis looked forward to those quiet times each evening in the Wolf-Girl's company.

Without ravens, they had no quick way to communicate with the rest of Westeros, and no ravens had been received. Winterfell was essentially isolated from the rest of the kingdom. Four weeks after waking found Stannis eating his evening meal in the great hall with the rest of the keep residents, hosted by the Lady of Winterfell herself. This was the first time all the men and residents of Winterfell had seen Stannis since he had been brought in from the battlefield. After a rowdy toast from the Umbers, and cheering from the men in the hall, everyone set down to eating, drinking and singing bawdy songs. Dressed in simple wool and leathers, the king frowned somewhat from the dais, but no one minded as that reaction from him was typical. He ate mostly in silence, occasionally answering Sansa or Ser Brynden, who sat at the head table along with the clan leaders.

A commotion stirred at the entrance to the great keep towards the end of the meal. A nightguard from the northern gate rushed in. "My lady, Your Grace, a party of Wildlings has arrived here, from the Wall!" The Wulls and Flints wanted to go attack and kill them at once, as they viewed Wildlings with as much contempt as they did the Ironborn.

"You will belay that command, Lord Wull." Stannis' harsh, commanding voice rang throughout the hall, effectively silencing everyone. Looking to the nightguard, Stannis simply said, "Describe them to me."

The guard told them that two dozen Wildlings had arrived at the gate, along with a young man of the Night's Watch and a boy. "They are not attacking, they simply ask to see Your Grace and Lady Sansa. The Night Watchman and the boy are here; the Wildlings remain outside the gate."

A young man and boy walked through the open door past the guardsman. Sansa gasped, and dashed toward the doors to greet her brother, Jon Snow, while Stannis met the eyes of his young squire, Devan Seaworth.


	8. Judgment

Stannis leaned against a post on the balcony overlooking the training yard, setting his cane nearby. Below him a number of men were training and sparring with swords and axes. For the tenth time that day he resented his injuries. He ached to swing a sword again. Ruefully, Stannis thought to himself that his physical aches prevented that from occurring, perhaps forever. A shout diverted his attention to the left side of the yard, where Jon Snow just disarmed Devan Seaworth and knocked him on his backside. Again. The two had been sparring under Ser Brynden's watchful eye for nearly an hour now.

Stannis thought back to that night in the great hall when Jon Snow and Devan Seaworth walked in from the cold.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sansa had breezed past him to envelope her older brother in a giant hug. Jon had tried to address her formally as Lady Stark, but she would have none of it, Stannis recalled. "You're my brother Jon!" she had choked out through her tears, smiling with joy all the while.

Stannis' own reunion with Devan was far more formal, at least publicly. The boy - no, young man - had approached him at the front of the great hall and dropped to one knee, simply addressing him as "Your Grace." Devan had not been completely able to hide his shock at the king's appearance, both that he was alive, and at the extent of his injuries or gauntness, but he had not lost his composure either. Inwardly Stannis was pleased; outwardly, he betrayed nothing.

It was not until after the newcomers had eaten, and the Wildlings lodged, that the five gathered together in the small private den to trade stories. Jon relayed the tale of his stabbing led by Bowen Marsh and seeming resurrection at Melisandre's hand. Stannis and Sansa expressed disbelief, but both Jon and Devan insisted it was the truth. Ser Brynden also shared the story of how Thoros of Myr had repeatedly brought Beric Dondarrion back from the dead. After that though, both Jon and Devan grew quiet, obviously troubled.

"Devan, Lord Snow, something else happened at the Wall, I can sense it. A fire, a ritual? Tell me what happened. And, where is my daughter?" Stannis felt very uneasy at this point, as both Devan and Jon looked at each other, then the floor. Growing incensed, Stannis commanded them. "Tell me now!"

Jon told the first part of the story. "Melisandre appeared to put a spell on the Queen and Ser Axell, and then on all of the Queen's men. 'Great sacrifices' she said, were required. They went about their nightfire ritual as usual, only everyone was chanting 'For the King' over and over again. She had commanded the men to build a platform. It was only after the ritual began that I realized she intended to give a sacrifice to her red god."

Stannis grew very still at this pronouncement. "Kings Blood. Is that what she said?" Devan and Jon nodded. Inside his mind he was going crazy with fear and dread. _Shireen, she didn't, did she?_ A child's scream, fire and shadows - images of his nightmare popped into his head. "Tell me - is my daughter dead or alive?"

Devan took up the tale. "Princess Shireen is alive, Your Grace. The last we knew, Ser Axell was taking her to Eastwatch. Lady Melisandre did not get the chance to light the fire." At that point Devan fell silent, and he could no longer look Stannis in the eye. Instead, the boy gazed down at the floor, clearly upset.

Frowning, Stannis looked to Jon for answers. "Explain," he demanded curtly.

"Your Grace, my shout seemed to bring Devan out of the trance that all the others had fallen into. He realized what was about to occur, grabbed a soldier's sword, and killed the red priestess. When her red ruby exploded everyone else came out of their trances as well."

Stannis was rocked by this news. Melisandre, his closest advisor, killed? And by young Devan's hand? He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Stannis did not feel grief at her passing, although he definitely sensed a loss. A loss of what, he wasn't sure. She HAD been useful to him. He also had to admit to himself that she had satisfied his sexual lust on far too many occasions.

Devan approached the king and dropped to his knees. "Your Grace, I have committed treason against you, by killing your senior advisor. I submit myself to your justice under the law." Devan's voice shook only a little.

With his back ramrod straight, Stannis spoke sternly, with no emotion. "Devan Seaworth, you have come to me freely admitting your hand in the death of the Lady Melisandre. You further submit yourself to me, to mete out justice in accordance with the law. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Tell me, Devan Seaworth, did you set out to willfully murder Lady Melisandre that night?" Stannis knew that he had to complete this judgment impartially.

White-faced, Devan nonetheless kept his voice steady. "No, Your Grace, of course not. I only killed Melisandre to save Princess Shireen's life. She hadn't done anything wrong."

"If you had not swung that sword, what would have happened?"

"Melisandre was about to set the platform on fire, and burn Princess Shireen, Your Grace. The Princess would have burned to death. There was no other way."

Jon Snow interrupted, his voice pleading. "Your Grace, please! I had already drawn Longclaw, intending to do the same thing, but Devan swung first. He is right, your daughter would be dead now if he had not killed Melisandre. Have mercy!"

"Mercy, Lord Snow? There is no mercy under the law, only justice. I must meter out my rulings impartially, according to the law, lest I be a hypocrite. I cannot make exceptions." Stannis paused a moment to let his statement sink in. Sansa gasped, Ser Bynden and Jon developed very angry expressions, and Devan knelt perfectly still upon the floor.

"All of you, hear me. Killing to save the life of an innocent is not murder under the law. In fact, NOT defending the innocent is cause for judgment. Devan Seaworth, I find you not guilty of murder or treason. You have my thanks for saving the life of my daughter, even at risk to your own life." Stannis reached forward and cupped Devan's neck gently. "Well done."

Leaning back, one other thought occurred to Stannis. He turned his attention back to Devan. "You said that Ser Axell is the one taking Shireen to Eastwatch. What of the Queen? Where is Selyse?"

The boy panicked, and turned to look at Jon with alarm clearly etched in his features. Stannis realized, then, what Jon Snow was going to tell him. "Your Grace, the Queen died at the nightfire, seemingly of shock. I am sorry."

Stannis heard Sansa's sharp intake of breath upon hearing Jon's words. He couldn't deal with her sympathy right now. In truth, he didn't know what he was feeling himself. Standing, he hobbled over to look out the window, even though it was dark. "Leave, all of you, except Devan. You stay." He had equally sorrowful news to relay to the boy, perhaps even more so. They did not need an audience for that.

Stannis waited a few minutes after Sansa, her brother and great-uncle departed the room before he moved. He needed to process his emotions, put them aside, and focus on Devan. Turning, he limped back over to the hearth and settled himself down on a long low sofa, propping up his injured leg.

"Devan, come sit down beside me." Devan, obviously confused by the familiarity, sat down on the floor next to the sofa. Stannis still didn't know how to tell the boy that his father was dead.

"Your Grace, have you received any word from my father?" The squire still sounded cautiously hopeful.

Staring into the fire seeking answers, Stannis found none, only flames. He angled his head down to look the boy in the eyes. Devan deserved that much at least. "Devan, Lord Wyman Manderly's son was held for ransom by the Lannisters in Kings Landing. In order to prove his loyalty to Tommen as king, Manderly..." Pausing, Stannis had to work to keep his voice steady. This had never been more difficult than now. "Manderly beheaded your father, and placed his head and hands on spikes atop the castle wall in White Harbor. I am truly sorry. Your father served me most loyally for many years; he did not deserve this."

Stannis watched as the squire desperately attempted to maintain proper composure before his king. Reaching out, Stannis pulled Devan to him and held him close while the squire cried and shook against him. He had not been alone when his own parents had died, and he'd be damned before he let Devan grieve alone either. "There is no shame in showing grief lad, especially for one's father. You are not alone." Stannis held Devan until the shaking subsided, until he fell asleep.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Three weeks later, looking down upon the two young men sparring in the yard, Stannis felt tired, old, and used up. Thirty seven shouldn't feel old, but it sure seemed to him as though he had lived two full lifetimes already. Lines had etched themselves deeper into his face, and silver and white hairs were growing more prominent in his beard and hair. His wrist and leg still ached from the injuries sustained nearly two months ago. At least he had graduated to using a cane instead of crutches.

"My King?" A comforting presence appeared at his side, interrupting his melancholy. Stannis found that Sansa's company grounded him, somehow, kept him from falling into the despondency that was prone to strike at any hour. She seemed to have developed an uncanny sense for knowing when he would fall into his gloomy and dejected moods, and would materialize at his side seemingly without warning.

"Wolf-Girl."

Before meeting Sansa, Stannis had never felt at ease in any woman's company. Selyse's presence had always caused him to tense up, and grind his teeth. She never spoke to him without spite and enmity in her voice, and certainly offered no quiet companionship. As for Melisandre, she had created a different kind of stress within him, but Stannis realized now that she would have led him to his downfall.

Stepping close, Sansa took up his left arm and began massaging and working the tense, tight muscles in his wrist and forearm.

"You've been putting too much stress on this arm." Sansa rebuked him softly, without any heat. Bending over to work on his wrist, her long loose hair fell forward, blocking his view of her face. His uninjured hand apparently took on a mind of its own, as it rose up and hesitantly swept the wayward tendrils of hair back behind her ear. His hand continued to flaunt its independence from all rational thought as it buried his fingers in the hair at her neck, and started to comb their way down through the long red tresses along her back, again and again. She certainly didn't seem to mind, as she leaned into his touch as well. Time stood still for Stannis, and he had no idea that the activity in the yard below had ceased as Jon, Brynden and Devan turned their eyes on him and Sansa.

As much as he enjoyed the attention, Stannis knew she probably had another reason for her visit. Placing two fingers under her chin, he gently tipped her face up to look at him. "You did not come out here, young Wolf-Girl, just to fawn over a tired old man." Only a trace of bitterness tinged his speech. "There must be something else, no?"

Unfazed by his self-deprecating words, Sansa merely grinned. "The harness-maker says he has a leg brace ready for you to try on. He wants to make sure he has the measurements correct. If it fits, this should make it easier for you to walk, with less pain or stress." Ser Brynden had actually thought of the leg brace, after fitting Devan with bracers and wrist guards for sword practice. The theory being that if they could prevent the knee from buckling laterally, then Stannis would have enough stability from the brace to walk fairly normally, and eventually not have to use a cane.

"Let's not keep him waiting then." Taking up his cane, Stannis gestured for her to show him the way. Together they walked inside, still unaware that they had given the men in the training yard a bit of a show, and her brother and great-uncle cause for worry.

The healers and Ser Brynden were correct; the brace kept his knee stable, allowing him to walk at least somewhat more normally. He would still need to use a cane for weeks yet, but at least now he was largely mobile again.

Later Stannis reflected that perhaps he should have waited a few more weeks before switching to the leg brace. Uncharacteristically enthusiastic, he had walked all over the keep and grounds of Winterfell after putting on the brace. Now he paid the price, as his leg ached from overuse. Thus he found himself soaking in a hot spring bathing pool that evening, located in the lower level of the keep.

Stannis had chosen the tub located furthest back in the complex, as he did not want to be disturbed. After soaking for close to an hour, he finally hauled himself out of the tub, got dressed, and started his slow, halting trip back through the bathing rooms to the stairs.

Passing one alcove, a rustling sound emanating from within grabbed his attention. He had thought that the rooms were empty. Pausing, he glanced over to see the Wolf-Girl, back to the doorway, remove her dress and robe. He caught his breath - he could not breathe, could not move, could not blink, lest the image before him disappear like a mirage.

Catching and reflecting the torchlight, her long hair appeared to have taken on a life of its own, tumbling down her porcelain back like a waterfall, only made not of water but of fire. As she reached a slender arm up over her head, he caught the swell of her breast from the side. Not voluptuous, but just right in proportion to her frame. Her long narrow waist curved out to a perfectly round rump, trim thighs and slim calves. He could not look away. Stannis felt pressure build deep inside him, and realized that he had grown rock-hard with arousal.

He must have made some sort of noise, because when Stannis ran his gaze back up her body he met her eyes looking over her shoulder at him. Sansa froze for a moment, like a doe in the woods, he thought, then gracefully stepped behind a wall out of his view.

Spell broken, Stannis turned and walked several steps away, towards the stairs. He had to stop, though, to get his lust under control, and to quell the black thoughts raging in his mind. _She is so young, a maiden, you old stag. No young lady wants one such as you._ Shaking his head, Stannis continued up the stairs. By the time he reached the great hall his sexual arousal had given way to angry aggressiveness, and he both wanted to avoid everyone and throttle anyone who came within reach.

When he entered the great hall Stannis realized it was not empty, and that he would have to pass by a table where several men were drinking and talking quietly. It would seem that he would have to interact with someone after all, as Big Bucket Wull and the Umbers drunkenly hailed him. On the other hand, Brynden Tully sullenly, silently glared at the king. So long as he doesn't speak, we're good, Stannis thought. Wull offered him a clay mug full of strong smelling alcohol. "A drink, Your Grace?"

Never one to drink, Stannis nonetheless recognized the smell as that of the mountain men's rough clear liquor. Sniffing, he tilted the cup and drank it all down at once, savoring the harsh burn all the way. Then he turned and smashed the now-empty cup against the wall, and quit the room without a word.

Once in his room, the combined effects of alcohol and physical exhaustion caused Stannis to fall asleep quickly, in spite of his surly mood.

_The great stag lifted his head, sniffing the air. His herd was scattered around him in the snowy, moonlit woods, browsing on tender branches. A clash of antlers sounded from a nearby clearing, signifying two younger stags competing for some doe's attention. The rut was in full force. The large stag ignored them; his attention was centered on a young doe browsing in a thicket up ahead. Sniffing again, he could tell that she had just come into heat for the first time. Trotting forward, he grunted softly, to gain her attention. Startled, the doe leapt over the bushes and ran several yards away before stopping, swishing her tail, to look around._

_Another, much younger stag approached the doe, magnificent still, but whose antler rack did not span as large as the great stag's. Enraged, the great stag bellowed out his challenge to the young stag. The young doe was his, he had already made his claim clear. Charging now, the two stags lowered their heads and clashed. The great stag pushed his challenger back, then bellowed again. Once again they charged and clashed head-on. This time the old stag knocked the younger one down. Struggling to his feet, the young stag briefly exposed his neck to the great stag, then trotted off, defeated._

_The great stag whistled softly to the young doe. Although she was quivering, she did not run off when he approached. He sniffed and licked the length of her body until he came up behind her. Signaling her readiness, the doe flicked up her tail, and he mounted her. As he mated with the doe, the stag bellowed once more and bit her shoulder._

Waking with a start, Stannis breathed heavily, trying to sort out his mind. The dream had felt so realistic, he had experienced it not as an observer, but as the stag himself. Then, frowning and sniffing, he became aware of both a musky scent and a damp feeling. Reaching under the sheets, his hand came away wet, covered in his own sticky seed. More realistic than he thought. Wiping his hand on the sheet, Stannis settled back to sleep, telling himself firmly it was a dream, nothing more.


	9. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king's mood swings grow worse, and he starts drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst alert! Everyone breaks eventually. This one's going to hurt.

Heart beating rapidly, Sansa scooted back into the corner of the bathing room, attempting to hide herself. At first she hadn't been frightened of the king, but seeing his expression changed her mind. His lust and desire were plainly written on his face, in his eyes, in his very stance. Was Cersei right, all those years ago at the Red Keep? Would Stannis rape her if he could? Even though he still limped and was not as strong as he would be at full fighting condition, Sansa knew that Stannis could easily overpower her. Against the king, she would be powerless to protect herself.

Holding her breath, Sansa listened for the inevitable footsteps signaling his approach. Instead, his footsteps sounded fainter and fainter, indicating that he was walking away. Daring to look, she peaked around the corner from her alcove. She saw the king pause briefly and lean against the wall, then climb the stairs. Finally breathing again, Sansa sank against the wall, wondering how she could face Stannis Baratheon tomorrow.

Sansa took a quick bath, too rattled to be alone for any length of time. She really wanted to get back to the populated areas of the keep, and to speak to her brother and great-uncle.

Ghost was waiting for Sansa just outside of her alcove. Grateful for the white direwolf's presence, she patted him on the head and ascended the stairs, Ghost padding silently beside her.

"Are you my personal bodyguard, Ghost?" It seemed to Sansa that his arrival was too convenient to be a coincidence, and that made her wonder what may have happened in the great hall.

As she entered the great hall Sansa noted three separate hubs of activity: her brother and great-uncle speaking in quiet but heated tones at one table, the Umbers and clan leaders singing drunkenly at another table, and a servant sweeping up the shattered remains of something by the wall. Ghost left Sansa briefly to greet Jon, then returned to her side. So, he _is_ my bodyguard, she thought. That thought alone made Sansa smile, grateful for her older brother's presence at Winterfell.

Seating herself at the table with Jon and Brynden, Sansa could tell they were both tense and worried. She had no intention of telling them what had transpired in the bathing rooms. "Uncle Brynden, Jon, what is going on up here?"

Ser Brynden looked at Sansa with bleary, tired eyes. He'd been drinking with the clansmen. "A short while ago Stannis showed up here from downstairs, really surly, drank down a big mug of that foul swill Flint has, then smashed the cup against the wall. He doesn't normally act that way, even when he is temperamental. Now here you are, coming from downstairs, and don't you try to tell me nothing happened down there, I can tell you're upset."

"Nothing happened, Uncle." Sansa felt incredibly small. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she could disappear.

"Are you sure, child?" Brynden had a drunken, but supportive tone in his voice.

"Ghost tells me otherwise, Sansa." Jon looked worried. "What happened?"

So much for intentions. "He saw me, downstairs, in the hot springs. I had just gotten undressed to get in the bath, when I thought I heard something. I looked over my shoulder and saw the king just standing there, staring." Feeling the heat flood her face from embarrassment, Sansa looked at the floor. She couldn't look her kinsmen in the eye, she felt so ashamed.

Both men swore oaths and made movements to stand. "Wait, both of you! He didn't do anything to me, I swear! I moved out of his sight, and then he left. He didn't touch me or speak or anything." Sansa felt conflicted - she feared the wild lust that had appeared in Stannis' eyes, but had grown fond of the quiet man whose injuries she had tended these past two months.

"Did you speak to him, Sansa?" Jon still looked like he wanted hit something, or someone. "Say something to make him so angry?"

"No Jon, I didn't say anything, I just moved behind the wall so he couldn't see me."

"Sansa, Ghost is going to stay by your side from now on. You need a guard, one that is incorruptible. Ghost will watch over you. I'd rather you not be with the king alone after this. He has dark secrets, demons inside, that could hurt you."

"King Stannis would never hurt me, Jon, I know it!" Sansa, who moments earlier feared the king, still feared him actually, now found herself defending the man.

Brynden appeared to sober up. "This afternoon we saw you and King Stannis up on the balcony together - he seemed rather familiar with you. And I've seen the way he's been looking at you lately - he's attracted to you. With his wife dead, and him being the last male of his House, he will be looking to continue his line. You are so young, so innocent, while he is the same age your father would be. This attraction he holds for you and what happened this evening downstairs, combined with his black moods makes him especially dangerous for you to be with alone."

The Blackfish wasn't quite finished. "Sansa, I've fought in a fair number of battles, killed, watched men die. Stannis has seen more, and done far worse. Those experiences and memories don't go away. They scar a man's soul, leave him searching for answers that don't exist. Sometimes the battlefield refuses to leave a man's mind, even though the fighting is long over. Now that his physical injuries have mostly healed, the king searches for a purpose. I'm frankly surprised that it has taken this long for cracks to appear. It's going to get much worse."

As it turned out, King Stannis shied away from any direct contact with Sansa after that incident, for which she was thankful. She didn't know how to behave around him anymore. All the gentle familiarity they had built up over two months disappeared literally overnight.

Sansa thought about her great-uncle's warning concerning Stannis' attraction towards her. She had seen that for herself, the night in the bathing rooms, when he caught her unawares. She had decided not to tell Jon and Brynden about his physical reaction to her presence. Sansa still didn't quite know what to make of it herself. She feared that sort of reaction in a man, especially one as physically and socially powerful as the king. But a small part of her was curious too. She could make the coldest man in Westeros react that way?

Unfortunately her great-uncle was also correct in his assessment of Stannis' mental state. His mood swings put all of Winterfell on edge as they grew increasingly volatile. Generally sullen and quiet, he turned particularly mean and verbally abusive when he began drinking in the evenings. At first it had not been every day, only every third day or so that Stannis would end up drunk by late evening. But soon the drunken spells became a nightly occurrence.

The king would spar and exercise during the day in the training yard, building muscle and gaining strength. Silent and serious, he demanded only that his sparring partners to not go easy on him, or else how could he improve. He certainly sparred with brutal abandonment himself, often causing mild injuries to his opponents as his strength continued to build. But when nightfall arrived, so too did the jugs of ooska, the foul liquor of the mountain clansmen. Stannis seemed to prefer the harsh burn of that liquor to milder ales or sweet wines. Its harshness matched his fiery temper.

Sansa sometimes felt as if she were back in Kings Landing, when Robert had still been king. With the exception of whores, Stannis had turned into a darker, more vicious version of his brother. Usually silent, he would often snap at whichever poor soul happened to walk within his immediate vicinity. Sometimes she would see him slumped back in his chair, with an expression so bleak and desolate, that she wanted to go to him, offer her companionship, just as she had done in the early weeks of his convalescence. When he stared blankly straight ahead, she knew whatever he saw occurred only in his head, not in the room. Then he would shake his head, fix her with a stony glare if he suspected she was watching him, and berate Devan soundly if the squire did not comply with his commands fast enough.

Sansa studiously avoided the king's company as much as possible over the next two months. Fortunately her duties as the Lady of Winterfell kept her busy, and made that avoidance easier. Nearly six weeks ago she had sent riders to Torrhen's Square, Castle Cerwin and Hornwood, sending and seeking news. With the riders she also sent requests for ravens, as Winterfell currently had none.

Riders from Torrhen's Square had returned just the previous night, with information for Sansa and her great-uncle. Her uncle, Edmure Tully, had been living as Jaime Lannister's comfortable hostage at Casterly Rock. Roslyn Frey had given birth to Edmure's daughter, and both had joined Edmure in the Westerlands. As for Riverrun, the River Lords had already bent the knee to the Lannisters, and no longer rebelled. The Lannister forces had last been seen moving south, back towards the Crownlands.

The next morning, Sansa and Ser Brynden discussed the news over breakfast. "I don't understand, Uncle Brynden. Jaime Lannister could turn his forces east, towards the Vale, or perhaps even towards the North. Why does he march back to the Crownlands instead?" Sansa feared for both the Vale and the North's safety and freedom.

"I don't know Sansa. Until we receive more information from the south, we will just have to keep going on with life as usual here in the North." Just then the king's harsh bellow carried through the corridors. Ser Brynden sighed. "Or as usual as it can get. That's my cue. Time to hit the training yard with our king."

"Don't hurt him, Uncle! And, don't let him hurt you." Sansa worried that Stannis may soon overpower most of the fighters located in Winterfell, and may injure her beloved great-uncle.

"Dear Sansa, I know you have developed a certain affection towards Stannis Baratheon, despite his current turmoil and behavior. I will not harm him intentionally, but I will not allow him to cause me injury either."

Sansa decided to watch the king and her great-uncle spar, surreptitiously of course. Stannis wore his leg brace, and probably would for the rest of his life. Now, four months after his arrival at Winterfell, he still walked with a cane, except when training. The two were currently sparring with training swords, the clanging sounds of metal on metal echoing across the yard. Neither man wore a helm.

More men filled the yard to train, and the sounds of clashing swords bounced almost constantly off the walls of the keep. Sansa noticed the expression on Stannis' face change, and his movements grow increasingly clumsy. He missed a strike at Brynden - in fact, he wasn't even looking at his opponent. Stannis' facial expression grew blank, then somewhat panicked. "Horpe?" He called out. "Horpe, where are you? We are outnumbered - we need to regroup!"

Recalling Brynden's words about how the battlefield doesn't leave a man's mind, Sansa nearly wept at the sight. Her heart ached for the king. Ser Richard Horpe had acted as Stannis' defacto bodyguard, and had died in the Wolfswood, along with all the other Southron fighters.

At that point Brynden wisely backed well away from Stannis, and waited for him to come back to the present. Without an opponent, Stannis turned a full circle, searching for someone or something. Confusion and anger were written plainly upon his face. Then he stopped suddenly, shook his head, and refocused on Ser Brynden.

"Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish." The desolate look in Stannis' eyes remained, although his face turned stony.

"Aye, Your Grace?" Brynden's voice remained neutral.

"I think we're done for today." Stannis then handed Brynden his sword and walked away, limping more than usual now.

As soon as the king disappeared inside, Sansa ran to Ser Brynden, Ghost trailing close behind. "Uncle, he hurts so! What can we do?"

"Nothing for us to do right now, child, but pray he doesn't self-destruct. If he refuses our help, we cannot force it upon him. I see how much you care for him, Sansa, but please, take care of yourself first." Glancing at the direwolf, Brynden then added, "And keep that beastie with you at all times. He knows what to do."

After dinner in the great hall, which the king had not attended, Sansa walked outside along the balcony, Ghost close by her side. A harsh voice carried out of the darkness, startling her.

"You've got that backwards, you know." Sansa whirled, trying to find the source. She recognized Stannis' voice at once, but could not pinpoint his location.

"A beauty and a beast. Isn't it supposed to be a man protecting the beauty from the beast? Yet here I see the beast protecting the beauty from a man." Walking towards the voice, Sansa could make out the form of the king sitting on a bench in a dark corner, long legs sprawled out in front of him. He was currently drinking ooska from a clay jug, eyes never leaving her. 

"Ghost is not just any beast, Your Grace, but a direwolf, and symbol of my House." Sansa buried her hand in Ghost's ruff, seeking courage. _I am not afraid._

" _Your Grace_ now, is it? What happened to _My King_? Am I not still your king?" Stannis' voice dripped with bitterness and loss.

Unsure of what he implied, Sansa tried to respond in a manner that would appease him. "Yes, Your Grace, of course you are. All in the North have sworn fealty to you."

Those were the wrong words to say, although Sansa didn't quite understand why. Stannis snorted like an angry stag. "Don't you play pretty with me, Wolf-Girl. I had lords aplenty who thought to fawn, flatter and appease, tell me what they thought I wanted to hear. I want truth, nothing more, nothing less."

Sansa took an involuntary step back as Stannis surged suddenly to his feet.

"I did not hurt you in the baths, Wolf-Girl, and I won't harm you now. But I can see how you fear me, perhaps that is best. I have committed monstrous acts, maybe I am the beast in the night young girls dread." Stannis' self-enmity and acrimony cut right through Sansa. At that moment, she no longer feared the king, but felt tremendous sympathy for him. She felt affection too, affection that had not disappeared, but had only been buried in uncertainty.

Sansa stepped forward, extending her hand up towards Stannis' face, hoping he would accept her touch, her support. But this time it was he who stepped backwards, out of her reach. Coldly, he spat out, "You should have let me die, Wolf-Girl." Then he stomped past Sansa, off into the night.

Aghast, Sansa fled in the opposite direction, indoors towards the heat and light, upset at her failure to drive away his darkness.

The next afternoon culminated in a scene that Sansa never wanted to repeat. Out near the training yard, Stannis was arguing with her great-uncle and brother. Yelling, actually. She couldn't make out his words, but his entire stance shouted aggression. She was on the other side of the yard, near the great hall talking with the Flints and Umbers, when more shouting caught their attention.

She turned just in time to see Stannis land a mighty backhand across Devan Seaworth's face, sending the squire flying a good ten feet. The boy lay facedown in the snow, unmoving. Hands balled in fists, the king started towards the boy when he was knocked down from behind.

The whole sequence played out before Sansa almost in slow motion. Jon tussled with the king, Ser Brynden tried to hold him down. Devan, unmoving, still seemed to be the king's target of choice. Then the Umbers and Flints dashed across the yard to help contain Stannis, who had already shaken off both Jon and Brynden. Ultimately it took five men to subdue the king, ending with a choke hold from Mors Umber, rendering Stannis unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 15 year old girl getting ready for a bath is going to freak when she finds out a much older man is getting aroused while watching her get undressed. When that man holds a position of absolute authority, she will feel completely helpless and powerless. That is why the bath scene from her perspective is NOT romantic - she's a scared teenager.
> 
> There is no way Stannis would NOT have PTSD on account of the fighting, war, starvation, etc. He's been through hell, and them some. 
> 
> (Public service announcement: I have friends and co-workers who served in Iraq and Afghanistan who struggle with PTSD. Yes, they do see dead comrades, and often replay battles in their mind as if it's real and happening for the first time. It's no joke, and it doesn't ever go away completely. If you know someone with PTSD, be a good listener for them.)


	10. Lifeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis POV

_The herd had moved into the dense copse of evergreen trees days ago, seeking shelter from the latest snowstorm. Now that the storm had passed, the whole herd was acting antsy and restless - they wanted to move on. All but the great stag. He bided his time and did not feel the need to rush the herd out. Here they were protected from predators and the elements, and had plenty of feed. Glancing about, he noted a small group of does nearby, pawing some late season apples out of the snow. His latest mate, the young doe, was among them. With the rut finished, the great stag no longer felt the overwhelming need to attend to the does, and instead kept watch on the herd at large. However, occasionally the young doe would browse near him, as if seeking his company._

_Two young, adolescent stags sparred playfully amongst the trees. In their second year, their antler racks spanned only a small fraction of space that the great stag's rack took up. Uninterested, the great stag focused his senses out beyond the copse, seeking signs of danger. A final clash and snort diverted the great stag's attention back towards the youngsters. One of the young stags had bested the other, and now he pranced towards the great stag, rack and head held high. Then without warning, the adolescent stag lowered his head and charged full-tilt at the great stag._

_Lowering his rack, the great stag stood steady to meet the charge. He had to put this insolence to rest immediately. As the great stag weighed three times as much as the youngster, the outcome of the clash was never in question. The echo of a snapping neck carried throughout the trees, and all the herd pricked their ears at the dreadful sound. Stepping over the body of his challenger, the great stag bellowed once, sniffed the air to ensure no other danger lay in wait, and went back to browsing. Soon the herd did likewise._

Sitting straight up in bed, Stannis blinked and shook his head, trying to sort his own mind out from the stag's. This was the fourth or fifth time that he had been woken by a stag dream so realistic he was starting to wonder if the stag actually existed, out there in the Wolfswood. No dream was ever the same. In the dreams he was always the stag, and with each successive dream the experience seemed stronger, closer, more tangible.

Stannis frowned as he realized he was still completely dressed, even down to his boots. The angle of light streaming in from the window indicated that it was mid-morning, yet Stannis clearly remembered going out to the training yards in the afternoon with Ser Brynden, Lord Snow and his squire, Devan. He did not remember going to his chamber, or drinking ooska for that matter. Getting up and jerking the door open, Stannis called for his squire. "Devan!" No answer.

Growing irate, Stannis bellowed loudly this time. "DEVAN! Where are you, squire?" He had made his expectations perfectly clear to the boy. Devan was always to remain within listening range of Stannis. As a squire, he was supposed to attend the king from early morning through the late evening, without exception. Stannis required, and demanded, unquestioning obedience from all who served him.

Striding quickly down the hall, Stannis slowed his pace when he saw a healer exit Devan's room. Puzzled, but still irritated, Stannis spoke with his usual harshness. "Healer Storgand, why were you in my squire's chamber?"

The healer cried out something unintelligible and dropped the tray he was carrying. "Clumsy fool." Contemptuously, Stannis stepped past the healer, who had pressed himself up against the wall. "Pick that mess up."

Stannis barged into Devan's room, then stopped short as he realized how crowded it was. Lady Sansa, a maester and a healer were all clustered around Devan's bed. Jon Snow, Ser Brynden Tully and both Umbers also stood nearby. Ghost, who had been lying near the foot of Devan's bed, stood up and bared his teeth at Stannis, effectively barring the king from any further movement into the room. Lastly, Devan himself appeared to be lying still in bed, eyes closed. Stannis could make out the giant black and purple bruise that covered nearly half of the boy's swollen face.

No one deigned to acknowledge his presence but Ser Brynden and Jon Snow, who simply focused stony, cold gazes on Stannis. Unfazed, he angrily called for answers. "What happened to Devan Seaworth? Why is he here?"

Audibly catching her breath, Sansa glanced up at the king, alarm and contempt warring for dominance in her expression. Ignoring her, Stannis was about to repeat himself when the maester timidly responded. "Your squire was struck a hard blow to the side of his head, Your Grace. He has suffered a severe concussion."

Furious that someone in his service had been injured so, Stannis demanded more information. "When did this happen, and will he live? Furthermore, who did this?"

The maester answered the first two questions. "Yesterday afternoon, Your Grace, in the training yard. And yes, Squire Devan will live. If the blow had been just a few more inches up and back, though, he would have been killed immediately." At that, the maester fell silent, and looked pleadingly over at Ser Brynden.

"You have more to add, Ser Brynden? Who did this?" Stannis snarled.

"Aye, I do. You did this." Brynden Tully's lack of honorific usage did not go unnoticed, but his accusation stunned Stannis.

"A lie! I have never struck a squire, or anyone in my service! How dare you accuse your king of such a craven act!" Antagonistic, Stannis surged towards Ser Brynden, but the two large Umber brothers stepped between them.

Jon Snow spoke with vehemence. "It is not a lie, we were both there when you struck Devan. We all had to restrain you, to keep you from hurting the boy further."

Stannis found their accusations incredulous, but the men all appeared deadly serious. Growing increasingly combative and belligerent, Stannis reveled in the savage rage kindling within his blood. _Fury Burns, aye. And my Fury will incinerate them._

Aloud, the king literally growled at Ser Brynden. "We finish this outside. Now!"

The sharp clacking of oak staffs striking each other filled the air of the training yard. Stannis Baratheon and Brynden Tully had been sparring viciously for nearly thirty minutes, with neither man showing any signs of tiring. A large audience ringed the yard and filled the balconies above, but no one spoke a word. Each man had managed to land a few body hits on his opponent - here a ribcage, there a hip - but a decisive blow had not yet been delivered.

Striking at Ser Brynden, Stannis became somewhat distracted by a trickle of images that popped into his mind.

 _A stag, standing triumphant over his defeated opponent._ CLACK! _Guard your flank._ WHACK. _The Red Woman, stripping naked before him._ THUMP. _Pay attention dammit._

Eventually the trickle of images became a stream, then a torrent that Stannis could not control.

_Snow. The Wall. The battle in the Wolfswood. The shadow of death. Renly the boy, playing knight with his cape and toy sword. A little girl with black hair and grey scars on her face, bearing his own dark blue eyes. Renly the man, sword point sticking out of his neck._

_A girl with red hair and blue eyes, singing._

_His own fury, burning. His own fist, striking out. His own squire, laying face down, unmoving._

Stannis did not see the blow that took him in the gut, nearly bending him double, or the strike behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet. His staff flew out of his hands.

All the air was knocked out of Stannis' lungs when he landed flat on his back in the hard-packed snow. So too all the fight and anger was knocked out of him, purging the rage that had consumed his soul for weeks now. Catching his breath, he felt the blunt end of Ser Brynden's oak staff at his throat. The older knight's face betrayed no emotion that Stannis could read.

Turning his head to the side, Stannis closed his eyes in defeat. The empty ache inside threatened to drown him, so strong was its pull. The pain pushed him ever farther into that black hole, and he desperately wanted to jump in, never to feel again. But a different pain pulled him too, tugged him in the other direction, towards the surface. Which way? Torn apart, Stannis let loose a mighty howl born of anguish, despondency and utter loneliness.

"Stannis Baratheon." Opening his eyes, Stannis looked up at the well-lined face of Brynden Tully. "You are not alone in this." The older knight's expression clearly demonstrated his empathy - he had been in that same pit too, once. Not speaking, Stannis regarded the hand that Ser Brynden extended down to him, obviously intended to help him stand. In all other sparring matches, Stannis had refused help, struggled up alone, and went off to drink himself into oblivion. Now, looking up, one of his father's sayings came to mind. _A drowning man does not refuse a lifeline._ Nodding to Ser Brynden, Stannis reached up decisively, held onto the knight's forearm as if for dear life, and was pulled to his feet.

Once upright, Stannis did not immediately let go. Instead, he reached out and gripped Brynden's shoulder with his other hand. Unable to meet the knight eye to eye, Stannis stared at the ground, consciously ashamed of himself for the first time in his life. A hand squeezed his own shoulder as Brynden mirrored his stance. "You need only to say the word, Your Grace." The older knight's voice carried no scorn or judgment, only understanding.

The words tumbled out of Stannis, not as a command, but as a plea. "Help me." Casting the last vestiges of pride aside, he raised his head to finally look Ser Brynden in the eye. "Please."

Giving the king a sympathetic look, Brynden Tully clapped him on the back as they walked together back to the great keep. "Aye Your Grace, all the help, and time, you need. You are not alone."

Stannis struggled to maintain his composure in front of the people of Winterfell. Unable to speak coherently, he silently walked inside, desperate for both familiar company and privacy. Would she let him near? Would she want him near?

He also felt the tug to drink come on, knowing that in the bottom of a bottle numbness awaited. The image of Devan, hurt because of him, _by him_ , kept Stannis from seeking ooska. A struggle awaited him, he realized. Perhaps they should lock me up for a few days, he thought. Keep me from hurting anyone else.

Entering the private den where the five of them had spent so many evenings, Stannis shucked off his coat and doublet, and slumped down in a chair. Leg aching, he removed the brace as well. Too mentally and physically exhausted to speak or really even think, he stared blankly at the flames in the fireplace.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he became aware of the aroma of soup nearby. Looking around, Stannis noticed the drapes had been drawn and the room was lit by a number of candles. Jon and Brynden were playing a friendly game of cyvasse at a table, and a mug of steaming broth had been set on the stand next to him. Sniffing, Stannis realized that he hadn't eaten any solid food in two days (or three, four? He couldn't recall, he'd been drunk most of the time). 

Having drained the mug, Stannis closed his eyes, listening to the continuing banter between Jon and Brynden. He was content to sit quietly, but secretly relieved that they hadn't left him alone. He had no confidence in his ability to remain sober by himself.

Eyes still shut, Stannis thought about his squire, and the events that had led him to strike Devan. Try as he might, he could not recall what had triggered his lashing out at the boy. All he remembered was the fury burning within.

Even before he began drinking, Stannis knew that he had been prone to bad moods, loneliness and melancholy. But he had also started thinking of Devan as a son of sorts, and had developed a rapport with the Wolf-Girl. All that changed after he had seen her in the bathing rooms. He had realized that he was too bitter, too broken and too old for anyone to want _in that way_ , and as king no one would want him for anything but favors. Suddenly understanding his brother's despondency and spiral into destructive habits, Stannis had followed Robert head-first down the same path.

The despair and loneliness welled up so fast that Stannis almost jumped out of his chair in search of ooska, or anything, when a soft voice and gentle touch on his knee stilled him.

"My King?" Sansa's quiet voice travelled straight to his heart. She came back to him! How did she know that he needed her company, here and now? Daring to open his eyes, hoping he wasn't hallucinating, Stannis noted that she had seated herself on a stool next to him, and began kneading his sore leg. Relaxing, Stannis sat back, and just let himself _feel_. For once.

After a while Stannis could tell that Sansa's hands were tiring. Reaching out, he stilled them with his own large, rough hand. "Wolf-Girl. That's enough for now. Tell me of Devan."

Sansa looked away for a moment, appearing both thoughtful and worried, but did not leave his side. Then she bent her head down so he could not see her face. Stannis thought perhaps she still feared him. He thought perhaps she certainly still ought to fear him. He told himself to remain calm, no matter what she said.

When she looked at him again, Stannis was not surprised tears shining in her eyes. For whom, he could not tell.

"Devan has a concussion, and probably several broken bones in his face. The healers say there's nothing they can do for that but let them heal as they will."

Stannis could tell there was more. He decided to voice his suspicion out loud. "Devan still hasn't woken up, has he?"

Sansa shook her head 'No' and looked away from him. Cold anger, this time aimed at only himself, flooded through Stannis.

"Leave me." Stannis wanted to be alone, to find that dark oblivion again.

"No." Sansa stayed by his side, defiant. "No, I will not leave you. I will not leave you so you can wallow in self-pity, get drunk, and start this nightmare all over again." Her voice took on an increasingly confident and determined tone. "No."

Leaning forward, Stannis made to get up, to walk away if she would not let him be. Then a thought occured to him and he stopped. _Self-pity?_ Slumping back in the chair, Stannis knew she was correct. Feeling sorry for oneself is selfish, he thought. And that's all he had done, his whole life. That realization floored him.

"My King, you cannot run away from your actions. They will always be yours to own."

Wisdom from a girl less than half his age. And yet, Stannis knew she was so right. He had to own up to his actions, his decisions, his failures.

"Wolf-Girl. Why? Why do you stay? I am not a man any lady chooses. Too old, too cold, too...broken." Stannis could not understand why the most beautiful, highborn, eligible maiden in all of Westeros would find his company tolerable.

Sansa did not tear up or look at him with pity upon hearing his statement. Instead, her voice and posture became even more confident.

"Because _I_ choose to. Because I _can_ choose for myself, now."

Cocking his head to one side, Stannis frowned, but chose not to speak.

"All my life I was told what to do, who I would marry. My life would be like a song. Marry a handsome, golden prince, bear beautiful golden babies. And so I was given to Joffrey, the handsome, golden prince. Only he turned out to be a monster, a monster who had my father killed, and me beaten in front of the court. I had no control over anything that happened to me then."

She continued. "And then Cersei and Joffrey tossed me to the side, in favor of Margaery Tyrell. They wouldn't let me go, though, as Robb was fighting in the Riverlands. So Tywin gave me to Tyrion instead, to humiliate us both. At least Tyrion left me alone. Petyr Baelish and Lady Olenna used me to kill Joffrey. Petyr then got me to the Eyrie, and once again I was to be given to someone else - Harry Hardying. Then I discovered he intended to give me to Ramsey Bolton too." Sansa's voice had become unsteady, and she looked unsure of herself, for no reason Stannis could figure.

Once again Stannis felt the fury within kindle, but this time he had a legitimate target - Petyr Baelish. He tried to dampen his hot temper though, to listen to Sansa. He watched her take a steadying breath, straighten up, and face him squarely.

"Now I am here, away from the manipulators. I am tired of being given away to other people like a nameday gift, or a pet pony. I am free to choose for myself." Sansa smiled shyly at Stannis now. "And yours is the company I wish to keep, if you will have me."

Stannis had no words. Perhaps this would be a relationship built not so much on his words, but on his actions instead. He reached up a hand to her face, drew her down to him, and kissed her gently, savoring her sweet smell and taste, then let her go.

"This will not be easy, Wolf-Girl. I have a difficult struggle ahead, you must know that. I would not drag you down with me."

A gravelly voice surprised him. "Then let us pull you up." Stannis had forgotten that Ser Brynden and Jon Snow were still in the room, and had witnessed him kissing Sansa.

At that point a healer entered the room. "Lady Sansa, Squire Devan has woken up." Looking at the king, he continued. "Your Grace, Devan is asking for you."

Standing up, Stannis nodded to Ser Brynden, acknowledging and accepting the knight's offer. Then he moved down the hall to begin the process of rebuilding his relationship with Devan, one that he had nearly destroyed.


	11. Interlude: Braavos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Braavos comings and goings

Salladhor Saan sauntered off his newest flagship and onto the docks of Braavos. His newest cargo still sat aboard the ship, awaiting his permission to disembark. Salladhor told himself that this trip was born out of nothing more than convenience, and a bit of gold, but certainly not in deference to a lost friend. His current destination was a small townhouse located in a humbler merchant area of Braavos, full of small shops and street markets. As he left the docks, he swore he heard the eery, low muffled howl of a wolf. Ha ha, Salladhor, you have been chewing too much qa'nat, he thought to himself. There are no wolves in Braavos.

Salladhor took little note of the cart-merchants that had set up shop along the edges of the docks. One of these merchants was a ragged girl selling mussels and clams. When he thought he imagined a wolf howl, Salladhor did not notice that the ragged girl also turned her head towards the sound. Neither did he notice the gray-robed man with a hood, sitting in the shadows, surreptitiously watching the ragged girl. That man certainly did take note of the girl's reaction to the foreign howl.

Reaching his destination, Salladhor tried to remember where he had left the key to the townhouse. Ah, that's right, the tulip beds. Lifting up a loose stone ringing the small bed of tulips growing by the steps, Salladhor unearthed the key and opened up the townhouse. Inside, the townhouse still appeared to be undisturbed, exactly the same as he had left it two years earlier. On the ground floor was a receiving parlor in the front, a small study and a kitchen to the rear. The second floor contained two sleeping rooms with beds and chests for clothing and blankets. Behind the kitchen the townhouse opened out onto a small walled garden area. The sturdy rock cellar located below the main floor contained provisions for a small family.

Satisfied with his inspection, Salladhor locked up the townhouse and went back to the docks to retrieve his cargo. He did not trust the dockworkers ability to stay silent, so he used three of his own oarsmen to escort the cargo to the townhouse. Salladhor bribed the dockmaster with a few golden dragons to convince him to look the other way. Guild rules strictly forbade sailors and oarsmen from unloading cargo onto the docks - that job was reserved for dock guild members only.

Salladhor left his cargo safely installed at the townhouse, and then took a canal boat over to a somewhat seedier region of Braavos. His destination was the Honking Goose, an inn that often acted as his alternative bank and information clearing house. Plus, they brewed a most excellent brown ale. Upon entering the inn, Salladhor nearly jumped out of his skin as he beheld a dead man sitting at the bar, or one he had thought was dead, a slim brown man with brown eyes and sea-weathered face. The brown man was currently fiddling with some chess pieces set up at the bar.

Sidling up to the bar, Salladhor ordered his ale, then spoke to brown-eyed man. "You look less like a headless corpse than rumor would have the world believe, my old friend!"

"Friend? What sort of a friend leaves another abandoned on a rock in the sea? No friend of mine." Davos Seaworth was not pleased to see Salladhor Saan. His eyes and face expressed extreme weariness, and wariness too.

"Well, you may change your mind, yet, if you come with me now. I have something to show you, something to light up those tired eyes of yours, old smuggler. Haha, I guarantee we shall be friends again!"

"Forgive me, Salladhor, if I don't jump up and down with glee. I don't trust you. And, I have no idea what you are talking about. There isn't enough gold in Braavos to make me smile today. Or tomorrow, either." Davos just wanted to see his family again, and then maybe sail to Lys or the Summer Islands, and leave all the wars and intrigue behind him forever. But he had a duty to fulfill first.

"This is not gold or information that I have for you, my friend, but that which you prize above all else. Come, it is just a short canal boat ride away, in the merchant district."

"Fine, Salladhor, I'll come along, since you won't leave me alone anyway, but you're paying the fare." Getting up off the stool, Davos snagged one of the chess pieces and put it in his pocket. It was a spare anyway, and the innkeeper wouldn't notice its absence. He figured the boy might like it.

Salladhor sauntered jauntily up to the townhouse door and rapped an elaborate series of taps on the door, to signify his presence.

Davos stopped a few steps behind Salladhor, wary that this may be a trick. He had no idea what Salladhor had planned. He hadn't divulged his own cargo to the flamboyant pirate, and had no intention of doing so.

When the door opened Salladhor Saan merely stepped aside so that Davos could see who had answered it. Davos didn't know who moved faster, he or his wonderful, soft sweet Marya, but he didn't care. Sweeping his two youngest boys into his arms, Davos turned to Salladhor and smiled after all.

Davos returned to his ship shortly before dark, even though it tore him up to leave Marya so soon, even if only for a few hours. He had to speak with the woman to make sure the boy remained cooperative overnight. As he left the docks again, Davos noticed the girl selling clams and decided to buy some for his family.

Davos decided, as he haggled with the girl about the cost, that her gray eyes and long face looked far too familiar. "You don't look like a typical Braavosi, girl. Where are you from?" He took a chance, speaking the common dialect.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "What's a typical Braavosi supposed to look like anyway, eh? They're from everywhere. Are you going to pay me or what?"

Davos noticed that she said _they_ instead of _we_. He decided to try a different tack. "What's your name girl?"

"I'm no one." Ah, that explains it, thought Davos. Time to tread carefully, let her make the decision.

"Well, no one, thanks for the clams. Here's your coppers. If you're curious and want to see something interesting, come to my ship tomorrow before the tide is high. It's the _Singing Dolphin._ " Turning to walk away, Davos thought of something else. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the chess piece he had taken from the inn and pressed it into the girl's hand. "Think about it."

That's just stupid, the girl thought. What's so great about his ship anyway? They're all the same. What'd he give me - is it worth anything? Looking in her hand, the girl stopped breathing for a moment. Clenching her fist around the small figure, she turned to find the man, but he was gone already.

The girl sat down against the wall, turning the piece over and over in her hand. Now she had no idea what to do. A voice carried to her from the doorway. "A girl must choose."

She was waiting at the _Singing Dolphin's_ berth when Davos arrived with his family the next morning. "I don't want your stupid toy. I told you, I'm no one. An orphan. No family, no pack, no one."

No pack? Davos knew he had her already. She had slipped up, but didn't seem to realize it. Just then a boy's voice could be heard coming from the deck of the ship. "Leave me 'lone, Osha, Shaggy wants out." A head of floppy red hair could be seen just over the rail, moving quickly towards the stern of the ship.

"Rickon?" The girl half-whispered, half gasped. "No, Theon killed him, and Bran..." Then she angrily turned on Davos. "This is a trick! They're all dead, all of them! I..." A wolf howl sounded from below decks. That stopped the girl cold, then she ran aboard the ship.

"A girl has chosen." Davos was not surprised to hear the voice come from right behind him. He had noted the gray robed man the previous evening. "But a man needs a girl's name, or else she will still be no one."

"Arya Stark." She named herself from the rail of the ship. "Braavos is no longer my place. My name is Arya Stark, and I'm going home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess what shape the chess piece is? (Not position)


	12. By The Old Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV

Sansa watched the tall form of Stannis Baratheon leave the den to go see his squire. She smiled to herself, still not quite believing what had just happened. He had kissed her! She told him her choice, and he accepted it! And more, he who never initiates touch did just that with her - he pulled her into a gentle, warm kiss. His kiss was so different than Joffrey's dead flat, cold fish kiss at their betrothal, or Petyr's pushy, aggressive selfish one at the Eyrie. Stannis' kiss promised both acceptance and restraint, one telling her that he would not push her before she was ready. It also hinted at a stronger passion lurking beneath the surface, one she was determined to bring out into the open.

"Sansa, are you sure about this?" Jon's quiet voice broke through her reverie. Sansa blushed feverishly - she had completely forgotten that Jon and her great-uncle, Ser Brynden, were still in the room.

"Yes Jon, I am sure. King Stannis doesn't need my title - all the North is pledged to him. I don't need his title - I am the Lady of Winterfell, and have status of my own and then some. And, he is so different than any other man I've ever met. Harsh, yes. But, he is gentle too, to me. Honest to the point of cruelty, but no one can doubt where they stand with him. I had enough of fakery, false courtesies and doublespeak in Kings Landing and the Eyrie."

Brynden Tully gave a sharp bark of a laugh at her statement. "You're the first person I have ever heard describe Stannis Baratheon as gentle, dear child. Perhaps you are the one meant for him after all. But don't rush into this - take your time. You have gotten to know him at a low point in his life, when he is injured and vulnerable. And you too, are vulnerable, seeking strength, security and an honest companion."

Ser Brynden continued his counsel. "The king didn't lie - he has a difficult struggle ahead of him. These next few weeks will be a challenge for him, you, and everyone in Winterfell. He is going to suffer both a physical and mental withdrawal from the ooska. The physical effects will be over within a few days, but that's not the worst of it. Be prepared for his temper to flare repeatedly, and his moods to change without notice for a much longer period of time." Her great-uncle stood up and moved to the door. "I should go check on our king and Devan."

Jon spoke up. "Sansa, I spent a great deal of time with Stannis at the Wall. His marriage to Selyse was cold and lifeless. She supported him as king, there was no love lost between those two. He is driven by duty - he needs a mission and a purpose, which he clings to like a dog clings to a bone." Jon looked away a moment, then back to Sansa. His eyes were deadly serious.

"There is more Sansa, much more that you should be aware of. Stannis was not faithful to Selyse - most nights it was Melisandre, the dark priestess, who warmed his bed. I think she held him in her thrall, but he entered that state willingly. It was his own choice to lay with her and allow her to use dark magic."

Hearing Jon's statements troubled Sansa deeply. "I don't understand how the man I've come to know, even when he was drunk, could in fact be evil. I wonder what he meant, the other night, when he said he was 'the monster in the night young girls dread.'"

"Sansa, I didn't say he is evil - he isn't. Stannis came to rescue the Night's Watch in our darkest hour when no one else cared, and accomplished the unthinkable. He brought the Wildlings through the Wall, reconciled them with the Watch, convinced them to pledge their support and obedience to him, and put them on the path to resettlement in the Gift. No one else has done that, ever." Jon wasn't through. "But, Stannis has also committed heinous, deplorable acts. He is driven to take the Iron Throne, and used Melisandre's dark magic extensively in his bid to get there. You don't understand, Sansa, most of his bannermen and subjects, and enemies too for that matter, fear Stannis Baratheon. And that fear developed long before he fell in with the Red Witch of Asshai."

"But Jon, you and the other Northmen don't fear our king. Why not? And, are you telling me to fear him now?" Sansa was curious - she could not understand why her brother told her she ought to fear Stannis, when he himself did not.

"He earned our respect at the Wall. Stannis came to put down the Wildling invasion, and to help fight the White Walkers if need be. No one else even believed they exist. If you speak to him honestly, without false words, he will listen, regardless of position or status. He hates elaborate, fancy speech. He can tell when someone is lying, and deplores it when anyone tells him what they think he wants to hear. All he wants is the truth. Stannis commands discipline within the ranks but none that he doesn't enforce on himself. Did you know that he gelds any rapists in his army? He reminds me of Father in a lot of ways."

Jon paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "No Sansa, I'm not saying you should fear Stannis. He would not willingly harm you. But you saw what he did to Devan. And he doesn't even know why he struck out, and probably never will. Until he recovers I simply ask you to be aware of his moods and state of mind."

"I will Jon, I promise." Jon's mention of the White Walkers made Sansa think of something else. "According to the raven we just received from Castle Black, the White Walkers seem to have slipped back farther north, and haven't attacked or been seen again. Do you think our return to Winterfell has something to do with it? I was compelled to escape the Eyrie after I visited their Godswood. I swear it was Bran who spoke to me through the tree and the raven, saying that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I haven't even been in our own Godswood yet."

Sansa grew more excited. "Remember we were told that Uncle Benjen stayed behind during Robert's Rebellion, as the Stark in Winterfell? I think our bloodline is tied to the strength of the Wall. Jon, tomorrow morning we both should go to the Weirwood tree, together."

Jon grinned at his sister's excitement. "Yes, we'll go together after breakfast. Maybe you can convince our king to go too. Right now the vast majority of his supporters follow the Old Gods, he should learn something of them."

A harsh bark echoed from the doorway. "Old gods, new gods, red gods, blue gods. I care not what anyone worships, so long as they don't try to force anyone else to do so." Stannis Baratheon leaned against the wall just inside the room. "Lord Snow, I would have a word with your sister."

Jon left the room to give Sansa and Stannis some privacy. The king wandered around the room, pausing at the table with the cyvasse game to rearrange the pieces in their starting order. He had circled the room completely without speaking. Sansa could tell that the king was deeply troubled. She waited patiently - he would speak eventually.

Stannis stopped by the fireplace, and stared into the flames. Sansa had to stand next to him to hear his harsh, low-pitched voice. "Devan asked, he asked what did he do wrong. What did he do wrong, to make me so angry, so that...so that he wouldn't do it again. He..." Stannis paused, voice and hands shaking, whether from anger or withdrawal, Sansa could not be sure. "He _APOLOGIZED_ to me, for displeasing me, he said. Said he would try harder." The king grit his teeth so hard Sansa thought they might shatter.

"The lad blames himself for what I did to him. Why?" The king's raspy voice sounded irritated, but when he turned to her Sansa could see the confusion and sorrow clearly reflected in his eyes.

This revelation did not surprise Sansa, who had witnessed Devan's clear devotion to his king. Fortunately this situation was one Sansa had dealt with herself, from her time spent at the mercy of the Lannisters in Kings Landing.

"My King, I believe I can help Devan work through that. The Lannisters had me convinced that every time they punished or beat me it was my own fault, for some transgression or slight I committed, or simply for bearing 'traitor's blood'." Even now Sansa still felt shame when she reflected upon those dark days in the Red Keep.

Stannis clearly didn't understand. "Foolishness. You had done nothing wrong."

Sansa huffed with annoyance. _Is he really that dense?_ "You've never been helpless, at the whim of someone who holds complete power over you, someone who can do whatever they want to you without consequence. You hold absolute authority yourself, _Your Grace_ , and have done so for many years. For the rest of us, especially as children, we learn to act in a manner to please or mollify who ever is above us, if only for the sake of self-preservation." Better for him to hear the truth now.

Stannis tensed up, then turned abruptly and quickly walked towards the door. "I shall release Devan from my service." Sansa had to run to grab his sleeve to prevent his departure.

"NO! If you do that now, he will think you are casting him aside, unwanted, useless, unworthy even. Is that what you want?"

Stannis stopped, but did not speak.

Bolstering her courage, Sansa continued. "Devan has served you ably for years. You are now the closest thing to a father figure he has, his only family. If you release him now, after this incident, you're telling him you don't want or need him anymore. You must let him heal, My King, and work through this. That will take time, on both your parts."

The king's stance relaxed, and his expression changed from angry to thoughtful. "Wolf-Girl." His voice betrayed some affection towards Sansa. "You speak the truth to me without hesitation. You are indeed a rare soul."

Emboldened, Sansa reached up to trace a path down the side of his face, gently scrubbing at his short scruffy beard with her fingers, touching his nose, his chin, his jaw. She marveled at the feel of his beard, fuzzy but not too harsh. Closing his eyes, Stannis nuzzled into her hand, obviously relishing the contact.

"You were wrong, My King. You're not too old, too cold, or too broken."

Stannis opened his eyes and snorted softly, scoffing. "Ha! Regardless, by daybreak this old stag will be too sick."

At that point the king looked away, face unreadable again. "Stay away from me for the next few days, Wolf-Girl. Mine will not be pleasant company to keep."

Sansa nodded her acquiescence, but before Stannis could walk out she stretched up to kiss his cheek, then stepped back to give him a small smile. Stannis raised his eyebrows in surprise, then gave Sansa a nod and quit the room.

The king was correct about one thing - the next morning Sansa could hear the sounds of retching and moaning carry clearly through his closed door. Hearing voices, she knew that he was being attended to by the healers, and there wasn't anything else for her to do to help him. She would also stand by her promise to leave him be during this stage of withdrawal. He didn't want her to see him in such a miserable state.

Jon and Ghost were waiting for Sansa just outside the great keep. Ghost loped ahead of them once they entered the Godswood, seemingly intent on finding something. "Where's he going, Jon?" Sansa watched the direwolf until he disappeared behind some trees.

"I think he's chasing down a rabbit in that thicket up there. Correction, he's caught it." Jon had stopped walking and closed his eyes. Sansa watched his face. Eyes closed, mouth half open, Jon licked his lips, clearly sharing in Ghost's pleasure at the kill. Sansa felt like she was intruding on something very private, very personal. With a pang of sadness she looked away, thinking about her own Lady, who was dead thanks to her selfishness.

"Sansa." Jon's quiet voice made Sansa raise her head. "I know you still miss her. I will find you a direwolf pup, I swear. I know it won't replace Lady, but I think we're all supposed to be matched up with direwolves."

Nodding, Sansa wiped away a stray tear. "You feel what Ghost feels, don't you? I could tell, just now, you weren't really here, but...elsewhere."

Jon looked embarrassed for a moment, then grinned. "Yeah, yeah I do. The stronger he feels it, the stronger I do. Sometimes I seek him out, but usually it just happens at random." Jon grew serious again as they approached the Weirwood tree in the heart of the Godswood. "Sansa, I think all of us are, or were, wargs. Ser Brynden tells me that Robb, when they were in the Riverlands, was able to communicate to some degree with Grey Wind. It's part of us, the wolf's blood."

"I don't know Jon. I never even came here to the Godswood, because I wanted to be like Mother, a well-mannered, proper Southroner, only following the Seven. I was embarrassed to be from the North; I couldn't wait to leave here to go south, to Kings Landing. How wrong I was." Sansa drew a shuddering breath, but decided to forge ahead anyway. "I even treated my brother as if he wasn't really family, because Mother disdained him so. I wish I could turn back time. Can you forgive me, Jon, brother?"

Jon hugged Sansa close and let her cry. "Of course, but there's nothing to forgive, sister. We're family. And we're home." He smiled as she pulled back a bit. "Now let's see what the Weirwood has to show us, ok?"

"Do you think the Old Gods will accept me, Jon?" Sansa still wasn't sure if she was truly welcome in the Godswood, and the face carved in the tree appeared to weeping red tears. Jon had other ideas. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the Weirwood tree. "Of course, Sansa. They never leave us, they just wait for us to come back to them." And together they placed their hands on the smooth white trunk.

Sansa became aware that she was sitting on the ground when Ghost started licking her face. "Ew, ptht, yuck, Ghost!" She wiped her face and looked over to Jon, who was laughing and grinning at her.

"Well, do you still think you don't belong here, Sansa?" Jon asked as he helped her to her feet. "That's certainly not the impression I got."

"No, I feel more at home here, in the Godswood, than I ever have before. You were right, they were just waiting for us." Sansa and Jon took a long look at the Weirwood, then started back through the Godswood to the main area of the castle.

Sansa had more to say. "Jon, the images I saw seem to confirm the information from Castle Black. It's as though the Old Gods, and the White Walkers too, know we're here, the blood of Brandon the Builder. I think there must be some truth to that old saying after all - 'There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.' What about you - what did you see?"

Jon looked thoughful. "I'm not sure I can explain it. Similar to what you describe, but I also saw a giant grove of Weirwoods, and I swear I heard Bran's voice. But that could be wistful thinking on my part."

Walking past the great keep, Sansa led them over to the remains of the small sept their father had built for Lady Catelyn many years ago. The roof, doors and windows had all been destroyed in the fire, but the rock walls were standing solidly, still showing burn marks and soot smeared across them. Sansa circled the outside of the burnt structure, but did not step inside its boundaries.

"Do you want me to have the workmen repair the sept, Sansa? The walls still appear to be sound - all they need to do is reroof it and replace windows and doors." Jon, too, did not feel the need to enter the ruined structure.

"Did you know Father was beheaded at the Great Sept of Baelor, Jon? And then the next year, Joffrey and Lord Tywin forced me to marry Tyrion in a ceremony of the Seven, right there in that same sept. No, septs have no place in Winterfell. I will not step foot in one ever again, by the old gods I swear it. Tear this down. The stone can be used for other projects." And with that pronouncment Sansa walked away from the sept, back to the great keep.


	13. Stop Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis POV

THWACK! The log split neatly in two pieces, each one flying to the side of the stump. The wood yard was located behind Winterfell's keep on a lower level, just outside the rear of the kitchen. Surrounded by walls on three sides, the wood yard opened to the south. This position kept it protected from the elements while allowing the stacked wood to take advantage of any sunshine that may appear, minimizing drying time. As the kitchen had to prepare meals daily for hundreds of people, it went through firewood quickly. There was always a need for someone to split more. The current woodsplitter found this particular occupation rather relaxing, meeting his needs for both exercise and solitude.

Stannis picked up another piece of wood, situated it on the stump, and aimed for the crack in the center. THWACK. The piece split neatly in two, again. Sweat dripped off his brow and ran down his face. The combination of exercise and sunshine had warmed him up rather quickly, and he had shucked off his furs and jerkin. Even though he just wore a simple linen shirt, that was soaked with sweat. Pausing for a moment, Stannis wiped his face with his sleeve and scooped up some snow to eat, to quench his thirst. Then he picked up another log and continued with his task.

He had spent nearly every morning for the past three weeks in the wood yard, splitting firewood from after breakfast until the midday meal. Unwilling to return to the training yard yet, Stannis nonetheless needed to build his strength and work off pent up energy. Swinging an axe accomplished those goals, and kept him away from nearly all of Winterfell's population as well. He also found the activity strangely addicting, but in a far more healthy manner than drinking ooska everyday had been. Once he settled into a rhythm, his mind would blank, and he would enter an almost trancelike state. An unexpected side benefit was that he lost his temper far less often than he might otherwise, although no one would ever label him congenial.

"Your Grace?" The quiet voice of Stannis' squire, Devan Seaworth, carried to him from the kitchen's back doorway. Stannis split the last log he was working on, then sank the axe into the stump. Turning, he gathered up his furs and jerkin, and walked over to where Devan was waiting with a mug of thick barley soup. Stannis was relieved to see no trace of fear in the boy's eyes or expression. It pained him, though, to see the purple, green and yellow bruise that continued to mark a large portion of the boy's face. The healers had told him that the bruising would not fade for many months, and arms training would be strictly forbidden the squire until the bones in his face healed completely. Devan's frequent headaches would also last a year or more. _All because of me._

It had been five months since the battle for Winterfell, and one month since Stannis had struck Devan on that awful day. After the fight with Brynden Tully, the seriousness of his problems and actions had finally made an impact upon Stannis. Going through the drying out period, though, had been more of a challenge than he anticipated. The shakes and puking came first, and he accepted those as his rightful punishment. But he hadn't known that he would also feel as though ants were inside his skull, under his skin, crawling and itching and biting him from the inside out. Shear stubbornness on his part got him through, although it had been a struggle.

After the worst of the withdrawal period had passed, Stannis had begun sitting with Devan for part of each day while the boy was still abed, sometimes talking, more often just watching over him while he slept. One small blessing was that neither one of them remembered the incident clearly, making the rebuilding of their relationship a bit easier. Stannis made sure Devan realized that the squire had done nothing to provoke him - the boy had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Gulping down the soup, Stannis passed the empty mug back to Devan with a wry expression. "The Lady of Winterfell will have me looking like Big Bucket Wull if she continues to insist that I eat like him."

Devan shook his head solemnly. "The healer said you've gained back five stone, Sire, but that's not enough." Devan held the door for his king, and then followed Stannis inside.

"Oh, aye? And whose opinion is that, lad, the healer's, Lady Sansa's or your own?" Stannis was somewhat annoyed with the opinionated commentary, and made sure his squire knew it.

Devan blanched, but did not look away. "All three, Sire. My father told me you don't take care of yourself, and that's part of my job as your squire."

Stannis frowned at the presumptuous statement, then stopped. The mention of Davos made him pause, and soften his tone somewhat. "Your father was wise, Devan. It would seem you have inherited his willingness to tell me things I don't want to hear as well."

"There's more, Your Grace. Lady Sansa requests that you meet her in her solar at your earliest convenience. Ravens have arrived with information from the south."

As they passed the kitchens Stannis' nose twitched - he was still hungry. He gave his furs to Devan and asked him to set out clean clothing and a basin for washing up, then detoured through the kitchen to snag a piece of fruit. His presence no longer caused a stir - in fact, the kitchen workers mostly ignored him, which suited him fine.

Stannis took an isolated back stairway up to the second floor, both to give Devan time to accomplish his task, and to avoid the hubbub of activity in the great hall. Since his extremely public breakdown Stannis had avoided contact with all but a few choice people, and had kept himself away from the great hall and busy courtyards.

Pausing at the landing to rest his aching leg, he looked out over a small enclosed courtyard, which contained a hotspring and a small glass garden. The hotsprings are the only reason Winterfell can survive, he mused. Suddenly, Stannis staggered against the wall as he was beset with a completely different image.

_The great stag approached the edge of the ridge cautiously. He had been moving the herd steadily southeast for days now, driven by some great urge within him, an urge to challenge an unknown rival. They had kept to the ridges as much as possible, traveling where the snow was shallow. Now, the stag snorted at the herd and stomped his feet, warning them to seek cover in the trees behind the ridge. He smelled danger._

_Looking down the long slope, the stag could make out a small group of men on horseback in the distance, riding in the same direction as his target. They were humans, and therefore dangerous. Turning, the stag trotted back to the trees, and drove his herd north, deeper into the forest. His rival, although close, could wait. The survival of his herd was paramount._

"Your Grace, Your Grace? Are you all right?" The voice of a servant brought Stannis' awareness back to Winterfell. She stood timidly, well out of his reach.

Straightening, Stannis fixed the servant with a withering glare and stalked past her to his chambers. He still didn't feel the need for pleasantries or answering inane questions.

Once he reached his rooms, he peeled off the sweaty shirt and collapsed onto the bed, thinking about the stag. The stag dreams had continued to wake him every few nights, but this was the first time he had been beset by one while he was awake. Stannis finally admitted to himself that the stag may actually be a real animal, not just something he dreamed up in his sleep. Either that or he really was mad, which made him wonder how much Targaryen blood was too much.

Stannis quickly cleaned up, putting on a simple grey woolen shirt and unadorned black leather jerkin. He made his way to Lady Sansa's solar, calling Devan to attend the meeting with him. Sansa, Jon Snow, Ser Brynden Tully and the Umber brothers were all clustered around the table, reviewing parchments and consulting a map of Westeros.

Everyone jumped to their feet when Stannis entered the room. Not bothering with pointless greetings, Stannis simply strode up to the table and gestured to the papers strewn about. "Well?"

"Your Grace, Margaery Tyrell has been imprisoned by the Faith Militant at Cersei's behest, prompting Mace Tyrell to break off any alliance he had made with the Lannisters. The Reach's forces march towards Kings Landing. We already knew the Tyrells were double-crossing the Lannisters, based on their cooperation with Petyr Baelish in murdering Joffrey." Sansa paused for a moment, to let the king digest that information.

"That would explain why the Kingslayer departed the Riverlands for Kings Landing. There is more, no? I see several messages here." The king wanted to hear all of the news.

"Myrcella has been murdered by Oberyn Martell's daughters in Dorne, in retaliation for Gregor Clegane's murder of Elia Martell and her two children. Cersei has also been imprisoned by the Faith Militant, and Kevan Lannister is dead, how, we don't know. Jaime Lannister now has three battles to fight - one with the Reach, one with the High Sparrow, and one with Dorne. Prince Doran refuses to acknowledge Tommen as king." Sansa appeared troubled by something else, but Stannis could not tell what it might be.

Stannis paced around the table, studying the map. "Any word from the Stormlands?"

Jon answered. "None directly. We received word from Castle Black that your castellan, Ser Rolland Storm, made a large delivery of dragonglass to the Night's Watch, but Dragonstone has since fallen. There are also rumors of invaders in the Stormlands, but no one has identified them yet."

The occupants of the room, including the king, ate a midday meal in the solar while they hashed over the new information and its significance.

After eating, Stannis prowled around the table once more, then pulled the map over to study it. "The North and the Vale are free of Lannister control. The Riverlords had bent the knee to the Lannisters, but they are now no longer occupied, so they too might as well be free. The Reach now marches against the Lannisters, and Dorne just bid the Lannisters good day. Dorne cannot be taken by the Kingslayer's troops alone. The Stormlands have no fighting force left, and now they are overrun with foreign invaders. Essentially all the Lannisters have solid control of is the Westerlands and the Crownlands. Have I left anything out, or is there something else you have failed to tell me?"

Stannis did not miss the look that Sansa and her brother shared. "Your Grace, news of Sansa's return to Winterfell has spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms." Jon Snow fell silent then, obviously unsure of how to give Stannis the next bit of information.

Losing his patience, the king snapped at Jon Snow. "Perhaps your mother was a dancer, Lord Snow, considering how you dance around words. Spit it out."

It was Ser Brynden who, moving to stand directly behind Sansa, answered the king. "Marriage proposals for Lady Sansa have arrived, Your Grace. Tristane Martell, Horas Redwyne, and Harrold Hardyng, they all ask Sansa for her hand in marriage."

Stannis was completely stunned by this news. He had not spent anytime alone with Sansa since the night he had kissed her. He couldn't even explain how he allowed himself to do that. Yet, he had started referring to her, in his own mind anyway, as _his_ Wolf-Girl. No one else's. He should have known that these proposals would start arriving soon. And, as a man without any current possessions, he realized the folly of his desire to make the girl his own. Nevermind the age difference.

He hadn't realized that he was staring down at the table until Sansa spoke to him. "My King?" Oh, how many meanings could be deduced from the manner in which she addressed him. He heard them, too, her questioning, her uncertainty, even her hope. He had no hope of his own, how could he give her any?

Without looking up, Stannis responded in his usual harsh manner. "You are not my ward, Wolf-Girl, I cannot answer for you. This is a decision that you and your kinsmen shall have to make." Then Stannis walked quickly out of the solar, pausing just long enough to tell Devan he was free for the remainder of the day.

Stannis had no destination in mind, so he was somewhat surprised to find himself in the Godswood, near the Weirwood tree. The dark pool of water near the tree had not frozen, so the water reflected back dappled sunlight. Stepping slowly, Stannis looked up at great tree's white branches that spread over his head. Some red leaves still clung to the tree, waving gently in the wind. The huge, gnarled roots that spread out on the ground from the base of the tree beckoned to him - sit, lay your head back, rest here, they seemed to say. A natural seat seemed to form itself from within a bowl of those roots, under the face carved into the tree. Stannis had heard the Northmen say that sometimes the faces weep red tears - tears of the Old Gods, they said, but today the face was dry. He settled himself into the natural seat and lay back his head, closing his eyes. He spoke quietly, for just a moment before drifting off to sleep. "I know nothing of the Old Gods, but at least this place is quiet. Perhaps I can gain some perspective, and maybe, a bit of peace."

_"A man should never refuse to taste a peach. He may never get the chance again. Life is short, Stannis. Remember what the Starks say. Winter is coming." Renly stepped around the tree, staring down at Stannis with a peach in his hand. "Tell me, Stannis, why do you never relax, or enjoy life, even a little? What are you running from?"_

_Disgusted, Stannis stood up. "I am not running from anything. Tell me, Renly, why you never took your duties and loyalties seriously, even for a minute? You betrayed me because you had no sense of duty."_

_Renly just laughed. "After all these years, and you still don't know? You're supposed to be the smart one. Well, my dense one-dimensional brother, let me tell you why. You ran away, left me when I was six, and took Cressen with you. There was no one left to teach me those things. Then, you ran away from Robert, abandoned him, when he needed your backing more than ever before. You taught me that brothers abandon brothers."_

_Stannis sputtered in outrage. "A lie, Renly! I had mine own duties, a new holding to rule. And as for Robert, he didn't need me, he never did. He had Ned Stark."_

_"Who is lying, Stannis? Robert needed both you and Stark on the Small Council after Jon Arryn was killed. He wasn't strong enough alone. That's why he named Ned his Hand, not you. What did the Lord of Winterfell know of the sea? You're the sailor, the sea-captain. Did you ever think of that? No, probably not. You just thought about what should be yours, not what should be good for the realm. I thought you were all about duty and justice, brother, but all I ever saw you do was complain about what you personally didn't receive. Your fair share, if you will. Pretty hypocritical, coming from a man who purports to put duty above desire."_

_The anger in Stannis continued to build. "Desire leads to nothing but a man's downfall. I desire nothing, Renly. All I have is my duty."_

_Renly just continued to laugh. "Stannis, you are only lying to yourself. You're pretty good at lying to yourself, you know? You just lied a minute ago, saying you're not running from anything. I bet you even tell yourself that you're not responsible for my death, that your hands are clean, that you really didn't kill me. But you remember how I died, right? I know you dreamed of it. After all, your own shadow did the deed. Sword right through my throat. Pretty poetic really, as I was about to eat another peach when you did it."_

_"I was asleep, my hands are clean! You wrote your own death warrant, Renly." Stannis felt Fury burn his blood. He snarled as he felt it build within him._

_"Ha ha, Fury Burns, doesn't it, brother? I think there is as much truth to that as Winter Is Coming. You received three brothers' Fury, getting mine and Robert's both when you were born. The gods must have been drunk when they allotted Fury unto you. Triple the Fury, none of the fun. I think your Fury prevents you from seeing what's right in front of you."_

_Laughing, Renly climbed up into the lower branches of the Weirwood, just over Stannis' head. Stannis glared up at Renly, unable to climb thanks to his lame leg._

_Renly hadn't finished, although he was still laughing. "Speaking of which, did you lose your shadow, part of your soul, somewhere along the way? You DO realize that priests and priestesses from Asshai are called Shadowbinders, right? Fury isn't the only thing that burns, Stannis. I wager your shadow burned clean away."_

_The taunts weren't over yet, as Renly climbed higher into the tree. "You started selling your soul when that Red Witch showed up at Dragonstone. You even abandoned the man who raised you like his own son. You let her kill him, and did nothing to stop it. Did you even mourn Cressen? Do you even care? I dare say she already had your shadow wrapped around her finger by then, and it was only after you killed me that she started tightening it up."_

_"A Lie! I didn't kill you, I was in my tent! My hands are clean!" Stannis shouted up at his brother. Yet, a sliver of doubt began to creep into his heart._

_"You sing the same song, brother, hoping for a different result. Your hands are not clean, not for my death, nor Robert's, or Cressen's. You know, I find it rather ironic that, as much as you hated all of your vassals fawning over you, spouting off pleasantries and words they thought you wanted to hear, you yourself ate up everything that Red Woman said to you. All she did was spin lies and sing sweet songs in your ear, all that you wanted to hear, and you lapped it up, every bit of it. Truth hurts, doesn't it?" Renly leaned over one of the large limbs, so that he was positioned directly above Stannis._

_Stannis growled and snarled incoherently, he was so angry he couldn't think straight, let alone form any words._

_Renly had a little more to say, though. "Hard truths cut both ways, Stannis, isn't that what you say? Well, here's some more truths, some harder than others. You are still alive. You may have a chance, yet, to get yourself a new shadow, untainted. You still have a purpose. You may even have yourself a pretty young she-wolf to call your own, if you don't let her slip away, and IF you stop running. But first, think about what that Wolf-Girl of yours said. You cannot run away from your actions. They will always be yours to own, I believe is what she said? Maybe you have started making things right by Devan, but you have far more to own up to. If you don't, you will never be more than a broken, bitter king." Renly jumped down to land right in front of Stannis. Angrily, Stannis swung a hard punch at Renly, but his fist connected with nothing but air as his brother's image evaporated and disappeared._

Stannis woke up shouting his brother's name. "RENLY!!" Breathing hard, he realized he was still seated within the roots of the Weirwood tree. Stannis jumped to his feet and looked up into the branches above him. Empty. The sun's last rays of light were barely touching the top of the tree, indicating that he had been asleep for hours, and it would soon be dark. He circled the entire tree, searching everywhere, still uneasy. Stopping again at the front of the tree, Stannis was surprised to see that the face in the tree was weeping red sap. It had been dry earlier. Only then did he become aware of the wet, sticky feeling in his hands. Lifting them and turning his hands over, Stannis saw that they were covered in the tree's dark red sap, yet to his mind, it looked like they had been bathed in blood.

Stumbling, Stannis fell to his knees and plunged his hands into the cold water of the pool. He scrubbed at them with sand, rock, whatever he could use, almost maniacally, desperate to make them clean. "Hands are clean..." he muttered to himself over and over as he scoured his hands, trying to eradicate the red sap. After several minutes he pulled his hands back, to see they were still stained red. "Not clean, not clean, NOT CLEAN!!!"

Stannis lurched his feet and swayed, almost drunkenly, towards the Weirwood tree. He felt Fury kindle, but it was aimed only at himself. His own delusions, his own failures, his own damn selfishness. He released the bitter rage that he had carried towards his brothers in one long, anguished howl, ending with despair at the knowledge of what he done. On his hands and knees before the Weirwood tree, Stannis forced himself to speak the words out loud.

"I abandoned Robert when he was vulnerable, and left him to die at the Lannisters behest. I tossed Cressen aside, and let her kill him. I abandoned Renly as a boy, then I killed him. My hands are not clean. I am a kinslayer. KINSLAYER!" Stannis shouted the last word, to make himself hear it, feel it, internalize it. "I must not forget." This last bit he whispered, almost as a plea.

Stannis sat back on his haunches to regard the face in the Weirwood tree. It continued to weep red sap tears, flowing in three parallel lines along one side of its face. Instinct drove Stannis to pull his knife and go back to kneel in front of the dark pool. The full moon had risen, and moonlight reflected off the still water, turning it into a passable mirror.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Red blood dripped into the water, causing circles to ripple out from the center where it fell. "Robert."

Dripdrip. Dripdrip. Dripdrip. More blood dripped, almost like rain. "Cressen."

Dripdripdripdrip. Dripdripdripdrip. Dripdripdripdrip. A steady bloodstream now flowed. "Renly."

Now standing, Stannis sheathed his knife and regarded his reflection in the moonlit water. Blood flowed from the three long lateral cuts stretching across the left side of his face, from under his eye towards his ear and jaw. The blood spread across the lower left side of his face, glistening on the skin, working its way through his black and silver beard, making tracks down his neck. Somehow he was not surprised to see a second face appear in the water next to him, a small, young face framed with red hair.

"Wolf-Girl. You shouldn't be here." He turned to face Sansa directly. Her blue eyes shone with unshed tears. "I have to be here. I could feel it, feel your pain, My King, all the way from the keep. I had to come."

Sansa reached for his hand and tugged him towards the Weirwood. At first he resisted, then a thought came to mind. _Don't let her slip away. Don't push her away either._ Relenting, Stannis allowed her to pull him to the tree. Still holding his hand, Sansa reached out with her other hand and dipped her fingers in the red sap tears flowing down the trunk. Stretching up, she smeared the red sap across each one of his cuts. She seemed to be working off instinct as much as he had been earlier.

Stannis hissed as she began, as the cuts burned from the sap, but he did not jerk away. When she was finished her voice prompted him to open his eyes, which he hadn't realized he'd shut. "Look at the tree."

He raised his brows in an expression of wonder. The sap tears had stopped flowing, and were already being absorbed back into the tree trunk.

Sansa pulled him back towards the water. Stooping, she washed all traces of sap from her hands without much effort. Considering all the time he had scrubbed his hands earlier, he didn't understand why she was able to remove the sap so easily.

Stannis bent down and plunged his whole head into the cold water, scrubbing the blood from his face and neck as he did so. He came up for air and shook his head like a dog might, flinging water all over Sansa. She laughed, _she laughed_ , and smiled at him. "Come up, My King, and look into the water once again."

Once again Stannis regarded his reflection in the water. All traces of blood and sap were gone. The sap had instantly sealed the cuts. Now the king bore three dark red scars running across the left side of his face, forever reminding him of what he had done, and what he had failed to do.

Turning his hands over, Stannis saw they were clean, all stains gone. And yet... _I shall not forget._


	14. The Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV

The next morning dawned clear and cold. After eating a hasty breakfast with her brother and great-uncle, Sansa found herself reviewing ledgers and stores with her new steward for most of the morning. The resident Wildlings had helped keep Winterfell's meat supplies up through frequent hunting in the Wolfswood, but non-food supplies, including cloth and building materials, would soon be in short supply. _At least we have plenty of furs_ , Sansa thought.

Two supply caravans had arrived from Lord Manderly in the past four months, but the building items had quickly been put to use. One new glass garden had already been built, and the framework completed for another. However, that one could not be finished until the next supply caravan with glass arrived, which could be as soon as one month, or as long as one year, depending on the snowfalls. Their long term food storage of grains, potatoes, root vegetables, dried nuts and fruit, and other non-perishables were adequate to feed Winterfell's current population for at least a year, so long as meat remained available. Sansa and the steward agreed that they should send for more supplies from White Harbor, as Lord Manderly had ample access to trade items from both the South and Essos. They also drew up rationing charts - just in case.

As she walked towards the great hall, Sansa thought about the previous evening, when she had felt compelled to seek out King Stannis.

**********************************************************************************************

Shortly before the evening meal Sansa was working on sewing a new shirt when she was overwhelmed by a great sadness, so painful she cried out loud. Thankfully she was alone at the time, and no one heard her. The pain continued, but she knew it wasn't her own. A longing, a despair so strong assaulted Sansa to the point she could hardly think, she only knew that she had to find its source. Wrapping her warmest fur lined cloak around her, Sansa slipped out a side door without being seen. She felt pulled towards the Godswood, which she had never entered after dark before. Regardless, she practically sprinted to the Godswood from the great keep, to find the source of the pain.

Once inside the Godswood Sansa stopped, to allow her eyes to adjust to the moonlit woods. She had managed to push the despair in her mind back enough to analyze it, and gasped when she realized she had felt it before, over the many months. This feeling had always prompted her to seek out the king in those days before he had begun drinking heavily. Only then it had not been so strong, so the feeling had only acted like a pinprick of sorts, a reminder to check on her King. During the months when he been drinking every day, she had thought this feeling had disappeared. Only now did she realize that it become a constant dull ache, so constant that she didn't realize it wasn't her own melancholy affecting her, but Stannis'.

Now that her eyes had adjusted, Sansa began walking towards the Weirwood tree in the center of the Godswood, as she knew that would be where she would find Stannis. She didn't understand how, and couldn't contemplate it any further as the intensity of his despair weighed more heavily on her heart. She just knew where she had to go, and started running along the path when she heard the king howl from up ahead. She stopped just as quickly as she had started though, just on the other side of the dark pool of water near the Weirwood tree. Standing in a shadow, Sansa observed Stannis with growing horror as he pulled his knife and kneel in front of the water. Frozen, she could not make herself move or speak as she watched Stannis cut himself deeply once, twice, three times across his face, muttering something each time.

Curiously, after Stannis made the third cut the overwhelming despair she felt in her soul lessened almost immediately, to the point where she could hardly detect it anymore. At that point Sansa stepped around the pool to stand next to him. Part of his face was covered in blood, but she wasn't afraid.

"I have to be here. I could feel it, feel your pain, My King, all the way from the keep. I had to come."

Sansa looked to the Weirwood tree, currently weeping the tears of the old gods. Acting purely on instinct, she wrapped her hand around his and tugged Stannis to the tree, where she proceeded to apply the red Weirwood sap across each deep cut. He hissed with pain, but did not move away. Afterwards, she could see that the sap had sealed his cuts instantaneously, turning them into dark red scars.

"Tell me, Wolf-Girl, what drove you to seek me out, here and now?" The king's low-pitched rumble sent an uncontrollable shiver all the way up her spine. Sansa felt her knees weaken. _I am linked to this man._

Sansa stuttered a little, as she tried to find the right words. "I don't know, My King, I just felt your...your pain, your despair. It drove me to you. I have felt it before, almost since you first came here, just never so strong. I think maybe, maybe we're connected."

Stannis' face turned into a mask of stone, completely unreadable. It was clear he felt violated somehow. "My pain is mine own to bear."

Sansa decided to take a chance. She stepped up close to Stannis, reached for his hand and placed it on her bosom, right above her breast, where he could feel her rapidly beating heart. "I felt it here."

THAT garnered a reaction. His eyes almost instantly dilated fully, and his warm hand twitched against her chest. Breathing deeply, he rasped out to her, "What of your suitors, whose letters you received? All are worthy." She felt his unspoken 'as I am not.'

"I intend to tell them no. Harold Harddyng is Harry the Horrible, and I don't know the others at all. I do know you, though."

"I am...not an easy man. You must know this." Stannis moved his hand up to caress her collarbone, then her neck, then buried it in her hair. Her skin tingled wherever he touched her. His other hand found its way to rest on her hip, burning almost, even through her dress.

"I told you I was sure a month ago. Why do you refuse to believe me?" Sansa ran her fingers along each of Stannis' new scars, feeling the slight ridge of them under her fingertips.

It would seem that he had no other words then. The hand on her hip wrapped around her waist and pulled her body flush against his own hard muscled form. Cradling the back of her head with his other hand, Stannis cocked his head to the side, pausing to look in Sansa's eyes, silently asking permission. She nodded, licked her lips and tilted her head up to give him easier access.

Sansa closed her eyes as Stannis found her lips with his own. Once again he started out soft, slow, somewhat hesitant, but as she followed his lead his kissing become more firm, more fluid and much more dominant. She gasped and involuntarily pressed harder against Stannis as his lips parted and his tongue licked her lips. Then he growled, low and deep in his throat as she rubbed against his thigh. His lips left hers to trail kisses along her jawline to her ear, then licked and nibbled his way down her neck and back up the other side, to claim her lips once more in a more forceful kiss. Sansa never thought a kiss could turn her body on fire like this.

As he continued to kiss her, Sansa became aware of a hard pressure against her belly making its way down to her groin as Stannis spread his legs wide. She realized then that he was fully aroused and it was his manhood she had been grinding on. Still, it felt so good she didn't want to stop rubbing against him. He didn't seem to mind, as he kept her body pulled tight against his while returning to nibble and lick on the hollow of her throat, his short beard making her skin incredibly sensitive. Sansa felt like her spine and groin were melting and she surged hard against Stannis. He growled again, and then he bit her.

Sansa jerked her head up and pulled back a bit, startled. He bit her! Not too hard, but it was sharp enough to get her attention. Stannis kept his hands on her hips as he straightened up and pushed her a few inches away, all the while keeping his eyes screwed tightly shut. She had thought he'd been enjoying himself, but it looked to her now as though he hurt, as his frown was more pronounced, he was breathing heavily and even sweating, despite the cold air.

"My King, did I do something wrong?" Ardor cooled somewhat, Sansa was now worried that she had displeased him. This whole experience was brand new to her.

"No." The word sounded strangled, as though he was barely capable of human speech. He tried again. "No, it is I who was wrong. I let us go too far, too fast. You're not ready yet, and I promised that I would not hurt you, or push you."

"I'm not afraid, not anymore." And, truthfully, Sansa wasn't afraid.

"Aye, but I won't dishonor you. I'll do right by you." Stannis opened his eyes then, and rubbed his thumb along the red mark his teeth had left at the base of her throat. She could see a bit of regret in his expression, but then something else, that looked suspiciously possessive. He smirked as he touched the spot again. "I've marked you as mine now, Wolf-Girl. Mine own, no one else's."

**********************************************************************************************

Sansa wrapped up her review of supplies with the steward and walked to the great hall in search of her brother and great-uncle. She wanted to give them an update on what she had learned. However, even though it was now midday, the great hall was completely deserted.

 _Where is everybody?_ The answer presented itself when she heard a ruckus of cheers and laughs carry through the doors from outside. Outside in the training yard an informal melee was taking place among a number of men, all wearing helms and various armor - chainmail or boiled leather. Sansa could see her great-uncle in the middle of it all, swinging a sword one-handed. Then she realized all of the men were only using one arm, and none of them appeared very graceful. She spotted her brother and Devan Seaworth sitting on a bale of straw, watching the proceedings. King Stannis was leaning on the wall behind Jon Snow, also observing the disorganized scene. As Sansa approached them she noted a new bruise on the king's right cheek.

"Jon, what is going on out here?" Sansa thought the whole affair had a rather festive air to it - men were laughing, even those in the melee, and she could see some coins swapping hands as Ser Brynden knocked another man to the ground.

Jon smiled up at his sister. "It's all in good fun, Sansa. Ser Brynden challenged the men to practice sword-fighting with only their off hands, and then it snowballed into a rather interesting open melee from there. They're blowing off a little steam, that's all."

Devan Seaworth spoke up. "The rules are simple, my Lady. They have to fight with only their non-dominant hand, and once they fall, they're out. I'm surprised they haven't ganged up on Ser Brynden yet - he's taken out a bunch of men himself. He's really good."

Sansa turned her attention toward Stannis. "And you, My King? Did you acquire that bruise out there, too?"

Stannis snorted and scowled. "Hardly. Earlier this morning Ser Brynden and I were trying to figure out alternative footwork to accommodate my right leg. I slipped and fell on some ice." Sansa thought that the new scars on his face made the king appear even more fierce, wild even, than ever before. After last night, though, she knew she would never have cause to fear him.

Just then a horn sounded, twice, from the outer wall, and watchman came running into the yard from the outer gate. "A small party of riders approaches, Lady Sansa. A group of six - one woman and five men."

"Take twenty armed men and ride out to escort them in. I shall greet them at the great keep." Sansa and Jon returned to the front of the great keep, Ghost pacing between them. King Stannis took his leave of them and disappeared inside, allowing the Lady of Winterfell to perform her duty.

Their visitors turned out to be Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island, Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte, and four southron knights, including Ser Garlan Tyrell. Sansa recognized Ser Garlan from her time in Kings Landing, as he had been one of the few willing to dance with her. The other three knights she did not know. One was at least as old as her great-uncle, but the other two were probably in their late twenties. They were introduced to her as Ser Lomas Estermont, Ser Erren Florent and Ser Parmen Crane.

Sansa had learned her hostess duties from her mother well. "You are all welcome to Winterfell as our guests. Rooms and warm baths are being prepared for you all now. After you have rested and warmed up we shall meet for a meal and to discuss your reasons for such a long journey in wintertime."

The oldest knight, Ser Lomas Estermont, stepped forward. "My Lady, we have heard all sorts of rumors concerning Stannis Baratheon. Some say he died at the Wall, some say Ramsey Bolton slew him in battle, and others hint that he may yet live. I see his banner flying next to your own over Winterfell. I am his uncle on his mother's side; tell me please, is King Stannis here, alive?" Ser Lomas' worry was obvious.

Sansa smiled easily at Ser Lomas. "Yes, Ser Lomas, King Stannis is very much alive and present here at Winterfell. I will ask him to come join us after you all have rested, for a meal and news." Ser Lomas visibly relaxed as he learned his nephew was still alive, and followed a servant to his temporary quarters within the keep.

Hours later Sansa entered the small, intimate dining hall that she had requested servants prepare for their evening meal. She felt the smaller, more intimate setting would work well for a first meeting with her guests. The tables could seat a total of perhaps thirty people. Candle racks hung low from the large cross beams that supported the ceiling, giving the room a warm, comfortable atmosphere. She also planned this first meeting so that, if the king should lose his temper at the presence of a Tyrell, there would be fewer witnesses to such a scene. Fond of him as she was, Sansa knew that Stannis harbored a deep-seated antipathy towards the entire Tyrell family, and she feared a confrontation may be likely to occur.

Servants had laid out trenchers covered with slices of thick, dark bread at each seat. Trays of meat and cheese were also set out along the table, along with pitchers of water and ale. A thick stew simmered at the hearth, to be served once everyone was present. Currently Sansa only saw Lady Maege, Lord Galbart, Ser Garlan Tyrell, her great-uncle Ser Brynden and her brother Jon in the room, talking at one end of the table. Ghost sat behind the table, staring intently up at the beams overhead. Ser Garlan was clearly uneasy to be in the same room as the giant wolf, but Ghost ignored him entirely.

"What's Ghost looking at, Jon?" Sansa couldn't quite make out what held the direwolf's attention.

A harsh voice from behind her answered the question first. "A rat." Sansa turned to see the king draw his knife, all the while keeping his eyes on the rat above. No one said a word as he threw the knife with expert precision, and they watched the dead rat fall to the floor near the table. Stannis crossed the room, picked up the rat with his knife, and dumped it onto the trencher directly across the table from Garlan Tyrell. Ser Garlan leaned back, disgust written all over his face, as the rat's blood soaked into the bread beneath it.

Stannis sat down across from Ser Garlan, removed the rat from his knife and tossed the rodent to Ghost, who crunched and swallowed it in two bites. As of yet no one had spoken, just stared at Stannis. Sansa didn't know what to make of his actions, but her fears of what he might do next came true as he started to cut and eat the blood soaked bread with his knife, never taking his own eyes off Ser Garlan. She looked to her brother and great-uncle in a silent plea, but they were as shocked as she was.

As usual, the king wore very plain clothing - black homespun, and a worn leather jerkin. He looked no different than any common foot soldier. It was obvious to Sansa that neither Ser Garlan nor her two northern guests had recognized the king. Out of the corner of her eye Sansa noticed that their other three guests had arrived in the room, but had not yet approached the table. Ser Lomas had a look of stricken dismay etched on his face. He obviously had recognized Stannis, but the king was not aware of his uncle's presence.

Garlan Tyrell finally found his voice. "You DO realize that you're eating rat's blood? That's rather disgusting, don't you think? As well as acting rudely towards the Lady of Winterfell."

The king didn't stop chewing, but did answer. "Rat's blood, cat's blood, it all tastes the same. Best when it's fresh and hot."

Stannis continued to eat and talk. "Rude? I did the Lady a service - that was one fat rat, eating from Winterfell's stores. Waste not, want not. Twenty years ago two or three of my men would have made a fine meal from that rat."

"What kind of barbarian are you?" Ser Garlan sputtered as the king ate the rest of the sopping bread on the trencher, blood running down his knife as he did so.

Stannis pushed the empty trencher aside, poured himself water, sprinkled some salt into it and drank half the mug in one gulp. "Barbarian? I'm practical. Tell me, Ser Garlan, have you ever known famine, true hunger? Being from Highgarden, my guess is no, you have not. I have, twice. For months each time. The northern clansmen, each winter, they know true hunger. The starving times. Often their old men leave, going hunting, they say. They leave to die, so that the young and strong may live 'til spring comes again. The clan folk make use of everything they have, and it's still not enough."

Garlan turned to a stunned Sansa. "My Lady, I must protest the presence of this...person. I did not come all the way to Winterfell to be lectured by such a man as this, whoever he is. I came seeking Stannis Baratheon."

Sansa didn't get a chance to answer as Ser Brynden and Jon both erupted into suspicious-sounding coughing fits. She turned to the king, but his very intent, predatory gaze had never left Ser Garlan's face.

"Garlan Tyrell." The king's whip-like voice cut through the room, compelling Garlan to look at him. "We were talking about barbarians, were we not? Tell me which is more barbaric - men subsisting on the blood and bodies of rats and cats, or men feasting every night outside the walls of a castle whose denizens are reduced to eating said rats and cats?"

Sansa could tell the exact moment when realization hit Ser Garlan, as he sat back suddenly with a look of astonishment and a bit of fear. "Gods be good, YOU are Stannis Baratheon."

Stannis' sharp gaze never wavered. "Aye."

Ser Garlan scrubbed at his face, looked up the ceiling, shook his head and then faced Stannis again. "Grandmother Olenna was right. You truly are the most unpleasant individual in all of Westeros."

Unexpectedly, Stannis threw his head back and actually laughed out loud. Sansa felt the tension leave her body and the whole room too as the king chuckled a small bit more and smirked at Ser Garlan. "There is hope for you yet, Tyrell."

Sansa felt now was the time to divert Stannis' attention away from Ser Garlan, so she reached her hand out to touch his arm. "Your Grace."

Mission accomplished. Her choice of formal address did not go unnoticed by him, as Stannis faced her, scowling and stone-faced once again. _I cannot waiver now._

Somehow managing to keep her voice steady, Sansa nodded towards the door where Ser Lomas, Ser Erren and Ser Parmen still stood, clearly uncomfortable. "Your Grace, we have other visitors, I believe they are known to you."

Stannis stood abruptly and walked over to the three knights. Ser Erren and Ser Parmen immediately dropped to one knee. Although Ser Lomas started to bend the knee, Stannis caught him by the arms. "No Uncle, not you." He spoke as softly as Sansa had ever heard him.

Sansa invited Ser Erren and Ser Parmen over to the table to give the king and his uncle some privacy. Stannis and Ser Lomas sat at the opposite end of the room so they could converse in private. Sansa was relieved to have him separated from Ser Garlan, and relaxed into her role as hostess a little more.

During their meal she learned that Lord Willas Tyrell had freed the two knights and asked his brother Garlan to bring them north, to find Stannis. The situation in the south was worse than she had heard - now the Ironborn were attacking the coastal regions of both the Reach and the Westerlands, splitting the Tyrell forces even more. Lord Mace, marching on Kings Landing, was unaware of the actions undertaken by his two oldest sons. The south had effectively unraveled in a matter of months, and lacked any effective leadership to unite the regions and suppress the invading forces. Lord Willas felt that Stannis was probably the only commander strong enough to reunite Westeros and end the unrest.

Lady Maege spoke up after the end of the meal. "Lady Sansa, Lord Glover and I were dispatched on a mission by your brother Robb shortly before he was murdered. We need to speak with you and Jon Snow in private - concerning the reason we risked the journey to Winterfell."

Sansa glanced over at the king, but he was still conversing with Ser Lomas and paid no attention to anybody else. Leaning close to Ser Brynden, she whispered, "Uncle, please stay here and make sure he and Ser Garlan don't end up in a fight. They are both of a similar size, and could easily injure or kill one another."

Sansa, Jon, Lady Maege and Lord Glover adjourned to Sansa's solar to discuss the reason for the perilous journey. Maege Mormont seemed to prefer blunt speech as much as Stannis Baratheon did. She handed Sansa a rolled up parchment as soon as they entered the solar. "This is your brother Robb's will. Know that all his bannerman called him King in the North."

Surprised, Jon leaned over Sansa's shoulder as they read Robb's will together. It was very short, and only pertained to his heir.

Sansa spoke first. "Lady Maege, did you read this?"

Maege nodded an affirmative. "Yes, Lady Sansa, Lord Galbart and I witnessed King Robb write, sign and seal his will. We believe this changes everything. We would have all the North respect the wishes of this will, repudiate King Stannis, and declare Jon Snow as Jon Stark, King in the North."


	15. Decisions and Propositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis POV

The rush Stannis had felt while playing with Garlan Tyrell's sensibilities disappeared the moment he set eyes on his uncle, Ser Lomas Estermont. The servant had not passed along the message that his uncle was among the visitors that had arrived at Winterfell earlier that day, so Stannis was surprised to see Ser Lomas. Giving Ser Erren and Ser Parmen a cursory nod, he caught Ser Lomas before the older knight bent his knee to the floor. Stannis uttered the first words that came to his mind. "No Uncle, not you."

For some reason the day he was knighted came to Stannis' mind. Ser Lomas himself had knighted Stannis at the age of seventeen, shortly before the Tyrells began their year-long seige of Storm's End. He recalled kneeling before his uncle, saying the vows and feeling the sword on each shoulder. Lomas had escaped Storm's End and had made his way back to Greenstone before the Redwyne fleet closed off Shipbreaker Bay.

For a moment the two just stood there, studying each other. Stannis had not seen his kinsman since shortly before he left Dragonstone for the Wall. In those two years Stannis' uncle had not physically changed very much. He knew the same could not be said for himself. He watched Lomas' eyes study his face, noting the scars, the new lines, the silver that had found its way into his previously black hair and beard. Then Lomas nodded, stood straight and addressed Stannis for the first time.

"Your Grace, it pleases me to see you alive and well, in spite of the various rumors circulating throughout the south." Ser Lomas kept his tone formal and impersonal; it was clear that he didn't quite know how to speak to his prickly nephew.

Stannis guided his uncle over to the far end of the room, away from the rest of the group. After Devan served the two men Stannis dismissed him to go get his own meal and sit with Ser Brynden and Jon Snow. Ser Lomas appeared surprised at the leniency given to Devan. "I am surprised that you relieve the boy from his duties so soon - you have always been one to follow form and function."

Stannis shrugged. "The lad is on limited duty, and I have grown fond of him."

The two men ate in silence for a while, then Lomas asked Stannis about his family, advisors, and men. "What happened at the Wall, Your Grace? Where is your family, the knights that sailed with you, Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre?" His reference to Melisandre came out with some hesitation, Stannis could tell. Like Ser Davos, Lomas had never approved of his liaison or partnership with the priestess.

Stannis looked away for a moment. "Dead, all of them. Selyse and Melisandre died at the Wall, my men in the battle with the Boltons. Manderly had Davos killed in White Harbor. I don't know where Shireen is, or if she is even still alive. Ser Axell supposedly took her and the remaining Queen's knights to Eastwatch, but I don't know their fate."

Aghast, Ser Lomas gasped with horror. "Gods protect them." Stannis just snorted. "The gods have nothing to do with it."

Unwilling to talk about the loss any further, Stannis asked Ser Lomas why he came to Winterfell, and to apprise him of the situation in the south.

Ser Lomas told his tale. "I was smuggled out of Storm's End via sea by the Dornishmen. The Stormlands are overrun by the Golden Company, headed by an 'Old Griff' and 'Young Griff'. They took Griffin's Roost and some other keeps in Cape Wrath. I fear they will try to take Storm's End next. No one knows what the motivation for this invasion is yet. You already know about the disintegration within the South, with Tyrell's forces split, the Riverlands in disarray, Myrcella's death and Dorne's refusal to acknowledge Tommen as king. Rumor has it that Cersei has gone mad. Now, the Ironborn are taking advantage of this fracturing to invade the coastal regions of the Westerlands and the Reach."

He continued. "Apparently Prince Doran Martell realizes that Lord Willas is far smarter than Mace Tyrell, and they met in secret to devise a strategy to expel the various raiders and end the internal war. That is where you figure in, Your Grace."

It was Stannis' turn to show surprise. "No love is lost between the Stormlands and Dorne, or the Reach for that matter. What do they hope to gain?"

"Peace and security. The North and the Vale have declared you as their king. The Riverlands will follow suit, as they are no longer occupied by the Lannister forces. You are the strongest military commander in Westeros. Lord Willas is favored over his father; if he declares for you, then all the Reach will as well. He freed Ser Parmen and Ser Erren as a gesture of goodwill. Prince Doran is also ready to declare for you, as you are the only male of Targaryen descent left and you have the highest percentage of dragon blood in the Realm."

Ser Lomas had more to say, and spoke rather curtly. "You realize that Ser Garlan came as a matter of goodwill. You nearly undid it with your rat trick. What was the point?"

Stannis glared at his uncle. "It was no trick, but an opportunity. Do not seek to rebuke me, Ser Lomas. I still do as I see fit, you would do well to remember that. It was also a reminder, that I will do whatever needs to be done, and I don't give a damn about appearances."

The king could see suspicion flare in his uncle's expression. What Stannis was not prepared for was the look of pity, or the question, that followed. "Stannis, what happened to you?"

The question was loaded with implied meaning - Ser Lomas did not refer to the battle in the Wolfswood, but more generally Stannis' pattern of committing deplorable actions in his quest for power.

Fury quickly ignited in his blood, but just as quickly died out, to be replaced with a bitter reminder of how far he had fallen. He instinctively looked for his Wolf-Girl, but she had left the room. Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to find the right words. He could hear the truth, but speaking it often proved difficult when it concerned his own mistaken actions.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and regarded his sad-faced uncle. Might as well get it out, he thought.

"I lost my way. I discarded what was right and just in pursuit of a misguided notion of what _my rights_ were. I was driven by lust - for blood, for power, for recognition." Stannis took a deep, unsteady breath. "And then I broke."

Talked out, Stannis stood, or tried to. His knee had locked up and his leg refused to cooperate. "Devan," he ground out between gritted teeth. Understanding his king's needs, Devan arrived at Stannis' side with a walking stick, and offered his shoulder as support while the king got to his feet. Nodding to his uncle, Stannis slowly limped out of the room, not looking forward to the stairs he had to climb.

Alone in his room, Stannis thought about Sansa while he got undressed, and his ever growing attraction to her. Most of his rational mind told him he had gone too far with her in the Godswood, that she was too young for him, and she wasn't ready to face his wild lust or desire. The fact that he bit her should bother him, but another side of him approved of the action, as he was simply staking his claim. That she hadn't complained or recoiled only encouraged his feral behavior.

These thoughts naturally led Stannis to a state of rock-hard arousal. He thought about the first stag dream he'd experienced, when he'd dreamed he had defeated a rival and then mated with a young doe. As he replayed the dream in his mind Stannis fisted his cock harder and faster than he'd done in years. When he reached the part in the dream where he'd rutted with and bit the doe, in his head she turned into Sansa. His release came so suddenly and powerfully that Stannis shouted out loud, then collapsed onto his bed. Sleep quickly followed.

The next day Stannis met with all the visitors plus Sansa and her kinsmen until noon, discussing the turmoil in the south. Stannis prowled throughout the room for the duration of the meeting, restless and irritable. He chose to speak little, instead listening to what all everyone said, categorizing and internalizing the information.

He also spent most of the morning observing the various people in the room. Garlan Tyrell was not pleased to be on the same continent as Stannis, but treated Sansa and Ser Brynden very cordially and respectfully. Jon Snow listened, but spoke very little. He appeared as sullen as he had been at the Wall. It was obvious to Stannis that Jon had something else on his mind. Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover hardly appeared to care about the southron turmoil, only the parts dealing with the Ironborn. Sansa kept glancing at Stannis, then back at Jon. Then she would look at the map and studiously avoid looking at the two northerners. The two other southron knights acted sufficiently frightened of the king's fierce demeanor, and spoke only when they had been asked a direct question. By the end of the morning everyone was on edge, and Stannis was no closer to having a plan of action. He was cranky, and didn't care.

"Enough!" The king barked harshly. "This is not accomplishing anything. You all have regurgitated the same information four or five times, and I have learned nothing more from it. We're done for today."

Annoyed, Stannis walked out to the balcony for some fresh air and solitude. He thought of how he would approach Jon Snow. Although Jon was not Sansa's guardian, Stannis still felt he should speak to her older brother first about a marriage proposal.

Not ten minutes later she showed up at his side, just as he knew she would. He was leaning on the rail with his bad leg propped up on it, foot dangling down. Boldly, Sansa stepped right up close to him, placing one hand on his injured leg, above the brace. They were standing far too close to each other for southron sensibilities, but she wasn't from the south, they weren't in the south, and he didn't give a damn about proprieties anymore. Oddly, he didn't mind her close proximity - it anchored him, and calmed his irritability considerably.

"Wolf-Girl." His voice rumbled rough, low and raspy. Stannis covered her hand on his leg with his own, rubbing the top of her hand with his thumb. She relaxed into his touch, just as she had before.

Although now less tense, Sansa still did not speak or look Stannis in the eye, which he found unusual. He had always tended towards silence, while she normally talked freely. They spent a few moments quietly watching the bustling activity in the courtyard below, comfortable in each other's silent presence. He sensed, however, that something troubled her deeply.

If he spoke aloud he would just spit out something harsh, which would undo their current rapport. Swallowing his impatience, Stannis tried to communicate with touch what he could not do with words. He gently placed his hand under her chin to encourage Sansa to look up at him, in hopes she would talk to him. But when she did look up he frowned quizzically - he could see a myriad of emotions at play in her face: confusion and hope warring for primacy. Now is the time, he thought.

"Where is your brother? I must speak with him." He tempered his blunt speech by keeping his voice low pitched.

Still not speaking, Sansa turned and nodded towards the Godswood. Then she pulled back from Stannis, gave him a small smile, and quit the balcony.

Confused by her lack of words, Stannis watched until she disappeared around the corner, then made his way to the Godswood. He hoped Jon Snow was still there, and that he was alone.

Ghost met Stannis on the path within the Godswood. The direwolf stopped to sniff at the king's hand, then moved aside to let him by. Stannis took this as a good sign that Jon Snow was near the Weirwood tree and that his own presence would not be unwelcome. As he approached the pool in front of the Weirwood tree Stannis could see Jon Snow sitting on a rock under the tree, cleaning his Valyrian sword, Longclaw. The young man did not look up or speak to the king, but Stannis did not expect an immediate acknowledgement. Instead he sat himself down on a large root and leaned back against the lower tree trunk, closed his eyes and waited.

Jon Snow was stubborn, but not Baratheon-stubborn. It only took ten minutes before Jon spoke. "Winterfell is Sansa's inheritence." He continued to polish an imaginary smudge from Longclaw.

"Aye. And who will continue the Stark family line? Do you want Winterfell's future lords to be Umbers, Tyrells, Martells or Hardyngs? Do you want your sister to be the Lady of Winterfell in absentia? You and I both know that the North needs a Lord of Winterfell, right now. It can't wait twenty years for a son of Sansa's to grow up."

Jon finally looked at the king. "Maege Mormont and Lord Glover, they came with my brother Robb's will."

Stannis stiffened. "Let me guess: they want to declare you King in the North and forswear their allegiance to me?" _Over my dead body._

Jon Snow nodded, looking miserable. "I do not want this. I am just a bastard. And the North, Winterfell, we owe you our freedom and allegiance, for what you did."

Stannis tried to keep his head level and temper in check. Now was not the time to let Fury take over when logic was required. "I know loyalty is fickle in the best of times, in the worst of times it means nothing, it would seem. In that the northern lords are no different from my own Stormlords, or the Riverlords who bent before Jaime Lannister. Jon Snow, I have two proposals that may satisfy all the northern lords."

Jon Snow seemed to know where Stannis was heading. "Sansa."

"Aye, your sister. House Baratheon and House Stark are both lacking in future generations. As the last male Baratheon, it is incumbent upon me to further my line. Sansa is tied to three Paramount houses - the Starks, the Arryns, and the Tullys. I need a young wife who can bear children, and a marriage between your sister and myself will unite over half the kingdom." _And she accepts me as I am._

Jon stood in front of Stannis now, looking deadly serious, and channeling his dead father in the process. "You want to marry Sansa? A girl less than half your age, less than half your size. My _sister_. Is this only to fulfill your duty?"

"Aye. I want to take Sansa as my wife." Stannis paused to let Jon digest that information. "Duty is all I have ever known."

Then he continued. "I want you to accept my previous offer - pledge your sword and loyalty to me, and become Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." Stannis reached out and gripped Jon's shoulder. "Westeros requires unity to prosper, Jon. I mean to end the warring, and bring stability back to the land and the people."

"And what if I accept your offer, and then Rickon or Bran miraculously show up?" Jon didn't want to steal his brothers' rights, it seemed.

Although making speeches was not his strength, Stannis tried his best to rally Jon. "The North needs a man, a commander, a Lord Stark of Winterfell _now_. You bear the very image of your father, you are his oldest child, you have command experience, and your brother Robb, who was the last Lord of Winterfell, named you his heir. If one of your brothers shows up, then name him your heir, if you so choose. Either way it must be a male Stark to continue the line, you know this. The North does not need a child Lord - it needs you."

Jon Snow appeared to make up his mind. "I cannot answer for Sansa, you must ask her for yourself. Regardless, you will not hurt my sister. She cares for you, Your Grace. Remember that, especially if you should choose to focus solely on duty."

Stannis nodded, but still needed an affirmative response from Jon. "Jon, will you be Lord Stark?"

Jon Snow looked beyond Stannis, then back to the king. With determination in his eyes, he finally answered. "Yes, Your Grace, I will."

Stannis relaxed. "Good. I will seek out your sister while you speak with your bannermen. I would have them as witnesses when you swear before me." Together the two men returned to the keep - the soon-to-be Lord Stark in search of his bannermen, and the king in search of his Wolf-Girl.

Not finding Sansa in the great hall, Stannis opted to return to his chambers, in hopes he could come up with the right words when he finally did encounter her again. In his room he was about to lay down when he noticed a leather parcel on his desk. He carefully unwrapped the parcel and took an experimental sniff. Inside were several smaller individual packets bearing the unmistakable odor of finely cured tobac. Eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise, Stannis stuck his nose into the bag and inhaled deeply, relishing the heady scent. _A pity I didn't have this in the Wolfswood._ Chewing or dipping tobac was an addictive habit frowned upon by almost all higher borns in Westeros, even though it did not cause impairment like alcohol did. Usually only sailors entertained the practice. Stannis had picked up the habit during the siege at Storm's End nearly twenty years earlier - it suppressed hunger and helped him focus during those starving times. He assumed Ser Lomas had brought the package from the south.

A knock distracted Stannis from the bundle. He called permission for entry. Ser Brynden Tully entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"Your Grace, I have a matter to discuss with you if you have a moment - it shall not take long."

The king nodded his assent, frowning as Ser Brynden's mannerisms gave away nothing of his intentions.

"I'd like to think, Your Grace, given the events that have occurred over the past many months, that you have come to trust me as a loyal subject, advisor, and perhaps even a friend."

Ever since that terrible day when Stannis had struck Devan in a drunken rage, and their subsequent fight the next day in the training yard, Ser Brynden had taken an active role in helping Stannis recover from his dependence on alcohol. He acted as a confidant of sorts, listening when Stannis spoke of the ghosts of battle that haunted him even during his waking hours. Stannis still sought out the older knight's steady company, even if all they did was play a quiet match of cyvasse. Ser Brynden's solid support was one of the main reasons Stannis hadn't relapsed and started drinking again.

As he dug into the package once more, Stannis decided to share a bit of the last conversation he'd had with Catelyn Stark. "I spoke with Lady Catelyn, as you probably know, when Renly and I met for parley. I told her kings don't have friends, only subjects and enemies."

Opening up one of the small packets, Stannis took a small pinch of course ground tobac and put it in the side of his mouth, between cheek and gum, and felt the old familiar rush hit his bloodstream almost immediately. Brynden Tully's bushy eyebrows nearly touched his hair in surprise, but he merely declined when Stannis offered the tobac to him.

"I also promised Catelyn that if I found Sansa or Arya in King's Landing, I would return the girls to her, regardless of what else was occurring in the war. Well, that didn't come to pass, as the Blackwater didn't go as I had planned." Stannis paused and spat into a cup. "As for having no friends, only subjects and enemies, I was wrong. Utterly wrong. It took learning of Davos' death for me to realize that. He was a true friend to me. As you have come to be, I think, Brynden. I have told you things that I've never spoken of before, and you've guided me through some of my darkest days. I trust you."

Ser Brynden sat in a chair and spoke carefully. "Your Grace, you know that I am extremely protective of Sansa - she is my great-niece. I found her at the Eyrie, got her away from that scheming cretin Baelish and helped her return North, free of Lannister treachery. She was held at the mercy of cruel and powerful men for nearly four years, manipulated and toyed with for their sadistic amusement. Since returning here she has learned to stand on her own two feet again and make decisions for herself and the people of Winterfell. Yet the self-assertive young lady I have gotten to know so well disappeared these past few days. She seems very shy, quiet, and unsure of herself. I can't help but think that whatever happened with you and her in the Godswood the other night has something to do with this change in Sansa. That, and your rather feral actions last night with the rat." Brynden grimaced at the memory.

At the mention of the rat, Stannis actually smiled, sort of. He found everyone's reaction amusing. "The rat was nothing more than an opportunity, a reminder to Ser Garlan that I will do whatever it takes to survive. I doubt that has anything to do with Sansa's reticence."

Stannis paced the length of the room and then sat down across from Ser Brynden. "Did Sansa or Jon Snow tell you why Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover are here?"

The grey-haired knight shook his head. "No. I assumed they are part of the overall delegation concerning the invasions and fracturing of Westeros."

"Did you know they had Robb Stark's will? You were there with him, up until the Red Wedding at the Twins."

Brynden didn't like that reminder, and frowned accordingly. "No, I didn't know that he had even drafted a will. He hadn't shared that with me."

The king continued. "Jon Snow tells me that Robb Stark named him the heir to Winterfell in that will. Mormont and Glover want to name Jon King in the North, as specified by his brother, and abandon their allegiance to me." At that the king scowled, and spat again. He was rather upset with the two wayward northerners.

Ser Brynden nodded in understanding. "That would explain a great deal of Sansa's change in behavior. Suddenly she isn't so sure of her place here in the North. She doesn't know where she stands with the northern bannermen, or with you, for that matter, Your Grace."

Stannis bristled at the unspoken accusation, but Brynden just plowed ahead, finally broaching the reason for his visit. "I am well aware that you have taken certain...liberties with Sansa, liberties that no older man should take with a girl Sansa's age. Yet you have not stated your intentions concerning her."

The Blackfish did not pull any punches. "Please tell me plainly, _Your Grace_ , have you lain with Sansa, and did you force her?" The knight was growing angry, angry enough to challenge his king.

"NO." For the third time that day Stannis quelled his temper, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. "No, Ser Brynden, I have not lain with Sansa, and I will not ever force her. Rape is an evil act."

Brynden Tully was not satisfied. "You seem to think she is yours, though. Once a man thinks a woman is his, he believes she is there to do with as he pleases, and it never occurs to him to call it rape. You must have gotten carried away, to mark her like that. She is not yet sixteen!"

Stannis became increasingly angry at the line of questioning. "I told you that I have not lain with Sansa. I spoke truthfully. Aye, she is very young. Aye, I marked her. I intend to marry her, if she will have me. As I told Jon Snow, I need a young wife who can further my line, and Sansa is the one I wish to take as my own. But I will never force her."

That admission calmed Brynden Tully considerably, but not completely. "And if she says no?"

"The choice is hers to make. In that case, I would legitimate and name Edric Storm Lord Baratheon of Storm's End, so that at least my father's line would continue. I will not force myself upon any unwilling lady, duty or no."

Satisfied, Brynden Tully settled down once again. "And what of Winterfell?"

"These prickly northerners will get part of their wish. I will legitimate Jon Snow and name him Lord Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. He is a just and effective leader. He will kneel before me, in front of his bannermen, and swear allegiance. They will have no choice but to follow. He has agreed to this, and knows of my wish to marry his sister. Together these actions should satisfy the northern lords." At that Stannis stood and walked to the door. "And now I have a young she-wolf to find."

"If she says yes, Your Grace, will you promise to stay away from her until the wedding?" Brynden Tully was channeling his protective uncle role now.

Stannis frowned and shook his head. "Have you ever thought how ridiculous the manner in which the noble houses conduct marriages is? Young maidens meet their husbands on the day, or at most a few days, prior to marriage. They are expected to bed a stranger. No wonder their fear and apprehension is so high. Selyse and I certainly had a cold, miserable marriage. I met her the day before we were married. There was no compatibility between us, but I did my duty. And in doing so, inflicted pain every time. At least Sansa does not fear me, which is remarkable. I will not have her come to a wedding bed dreading what will happen. I will not lay with Sansa until the wedding, until she is ready, I promise that much. But no, I will not stay away from her. I would have her be at ease in my company first."

It turned out that Stannis was unable to get with Sansa alone until later that evening, when he found her in the den they all used from time to time. Even though she was highborn, she always spent her spare time engaging in productive, rather than frivolous activities, of which he heartily approved. She was sitting in a chair mending clothing when he entered the room. "Wolf-Girl." He addressed her in a manner to put her at ease, or so he hoped.

When Sansa made to rise he bid her stay seated. Pacing now, Stannis found himself at a loss for words. "Are you aware that I spoke with your brother?" When she nodded, he continued, still unsure how to propose. "In order to appease your bannermen, I have agreed to take Jon's vow and name him Lord Stark, Warden of the North. When he swears allegiance to me, they will also be forced to do so, putting to rest this nonsense of a King in the North." He fell silent at that, and scowled.

Sansa, on the other hand, smiled. "Is there more you wish to speak of, My King?"

Stannis was grateful for both his beard and his scars, as he knew they would hide at least part of the red color he knew had appeared on his suddenly hot face. "Aye. The northern lords will be less fractious if there is also a marriage to unite the North with the king."

Stannis reached for her hand and pulled Sansa to her feet. He no longer saw any doubt in her eyes. Now or never. "Sansa Stark, will you be my wife and my queen?"

"Yes."

Giving Stannis a brilliant smile, Sansa reached her hand up to feel his scruffy beard, then tugged his head down to hers. Stannis kissed her gently, not giving in to his urge to ravish her right then and there. He broke it off and stepped back a little, to prove that he would not push Sansa. But then she moved back into his arms and lay her head on his chest. As he stood there holding Sansa close, Stannis for the first time in his adult life found something meaningful beyond duty - comfort, and perhaps even hope.

The following day a raven arrived from White Harbor. The supply caravan had already left, and should arrive at Winterfell within a week. Oddly, Lord Wylis Manderly, the heir to White Harbor would be accompanying this particular caravan. Stannis vowed to extract the truth and reasoning behind Davos' death when Lord Wylis arrived.

Stannis met with Jon, Sansa and all the northern bannermen currently within Winterfell to inform them of his intent to name Jon Lord of Winterfell, and the agreement to marry Sansa. The Umbers and mountain clansmen heartily approved and agreed to the plan and vowed their continued loyalty to Stannis as king. Lady Maege and Lord Glover looked rebellious at first, but when they were faced with the two stern young wolves of Winterfell flanking the king, reminding them of honor and keeping their vows of allegiance, Lady Maege and Lord Glover acquiesced to the plan and renewed their pledge of support to Stannis. It was decided to schedule the ceremony raising Jon to Lord of Winterfell after the supplies arrived from White Harbor. Then they would hold a combined feast to celebrate Jon's new status and the betrothal of Sansa to the king.

Over the next few weeks Stannis made sure to devote a part of each evening in Sansa's company, developing and deepening their bond. Sometimes he would answer her questions, sometimes they just sat quietly, reviewing messages or papers together. Oftentimes it was in the den that they spent time with her kinsmen, Devan and his uncle, Ser Lomas. During the days he trained with Ser Brynden, improving his altered fighting stances and coordination and building muscle strength. As messages filtered in he would meet with all the bannermen, clansmen, and even Garlan Tyrell, trying to piece together a strategy to end the various conflicts. The bond of support and friendship that he had developed with Brynden Tully continued to strengthen as well, and Stannis came to rely on and value the knight nearly as much as he had relied upon Davos in the past.

Two weeks later found the king, the Starks, Ser Brynden and all the visitors in the great hall discussing plans to send out a search party for the caravan from White Harbor. It was now a week overdue, and Sansa was worried that either the weather or raiders had affected the supply caravan. While talking and eating their midday meal, Ghost suddenly jumped up and stared intently at the door. A guardsman from the outer gate burst in a moment later.

"Your Grace, Lady Sansa, Lord Snow, a large group of riders and pack-horses approaches Winterfell. They are flying the Merman banner! It appears to be the supply caravan from White Harbor." The guardsman paused to take a breath, and smiled. "There is more. A large black direwolf was seen accompanying the riders as well."

Sansa and Jon jumped up and shouted in joy as they dashed out of the great keep. "Rickon!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave comments - feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	16. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV

When Arya and Rickon rode through Winterfell's gates together on a pony, in front of Lord Wyman Manderly's column, Sansa's legs nearly gave out from shock. Then emotion took over and Sansa and Jon ran towards their two younger siblings, both laughing and crying with joy. Rickon slid off the pony and dashed to Sansa, and Arya literally launched herself into Jon's arms. Soon all four siblings were piled around each other, much like a wolf pack, laughing and crying and hugging all at once, tears flowing freely down all their faces.

Several additional surprises showed up in Lord Manderly's caravan. One was Davos Seaworth, whom Lord Manderly had previously proclaimed dead at his order. Sansa learned that Davos had been sent in secret to Skagos to recover Rickon, and had also found Arya on the docks of Braavos on their way back to White Harbor. Devan's reunion with both his father and the rest of his family had been as tearful and joyful as the Starks'.

Another unexpected visitor was Lord Manderly himself, when his letter had indicated that his son would be the one to accompany the caravan. Lord Manderly stated that if he had stated his true intention, and the letter had been intercepted, the importance of his mission might be discovered by enemies of the Starks, the Baratheons and all of the North.

The other surprise was the arrival of Princess Shireen Baratheon, Stannis' twelve year old daughter. It turned out that Ser Axell did take Jon's advice, and had taken his great-niece first to Eastwatch, and then on to White Harbor. Lord Manderly had sheltered them for half a year. Upon departing White Harbor for Winterfell Shireen had quickly reformed her bond with Davos, 'Ser Onion Knight', and had become fast friends with both Arya and Rickon.

Quickly perceiving the girl's shyness, Sansa warmly greeted Shireen, and did her best to make the princess feel welcome. "You are most welcome here at Winterfell, Princess Shireen. Your father is here, and will be most pleased to see you once again."

"Do you think so, Lady Sansa? I haven't seen him in two years, and I don't know him well." Sansa could detect an underlying fear in the girl's tone. Sansa's heart ached a bit for the girl, even through her own happiness. "I think you will find your father to be a somewhat changed man from when you saw him last, princess. You need not fear him."

Unlike Devan's reunion with his father and family, or Sansa and Jon's with their younger siblings, Shireen's first glimpse of her father in two years did nothing to abate the apprehension and anxiety that Sansa had detected. If anything, his sudden appearance in the great hall only amplified her fright of a man she barely knew.

"Manderly! Wyman Manderly, you dare show your face here?" Silence descended upon the great hall as Stannis walked with long quick strides towards Lord Manderly, blood-lust and intense hatred clearly written all over his face. Sansa saw the look of shock pass over Davos as he recognized his king. It was very clear to her that Stannis was still unaware of Davos' arrival.

To Sansa the whole scene played out like a dream. Accustomed to the king's mood swings as she was, she was unprepared to witness his display of vicious ferocity. Nor was she prepared for the onslaught of dark emotion she could feel emanating from the king. It nearly overwhelmed her senses.

"Your blood is mine, Lord Manderly, for what you did to my Hand." The king snarled, voice choked with anger, as he stalked towards Lord Manderly.

Aware of her tenuous connection to Stannis, Ser Brynden came up behind Sansa and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Steady, Sansa, steady. Breathe. You may have to distract him to keep Lord Manderly alive." Together they watched as Davos jumped in front of Lord Manderly, shouting "Your Grace, stop!" when Stannis was only twenty feet from his target. The king pulled up short, confusion warring with rage for control. He did not approach any further, but neither did his gaze leave Davos' face.

"What trickery is this?" Stannis paced back and forth, much like a caged beast, eyes never wavering.

"No tricks, Your Grace, except the need to fool the Boltons, Freys and Lannisters. Secrecy was paramount, in order to recover Rickon Stark from Skagos. Lord Manderly gave me no choice."

She could tell that Davos' words hadn't quite penetrated the fury that had overtaken Stannis, and spoke out herself. "It's true, Your Grace. My brother Rickon is here, he just told me the story of how Lord Davos found him on the island." That seemed to bring him back. He shook his head, then quickly returned his focus to Davos. But Sansa could tell that the blind rage had left him, as he paced slowly towards Davos, stopping a few feet away, and just looked at his Hand.

"Lord Manderly. Your head and hands are yours to keep." The words were addressed to Manderly, but Stannis still did not take his eyes off Davos. Then the king turned and quit the great hall, as suddenly as he had arrived. Sansa started breathing again, not aware before that she'd been holding her breath. His display of raw rage had set everyone on edge, and if she was honest with herself, Sansa was relieved that Stannis had left the room.

Looking over at Davos, his family and Shireen, Sansa could make out the sheer terror etched in the young girl's expression. She clutched Marya Seaworth's hand very tightly. _And I just told her that she need not fear her father._ The king had not even seen his daughter, and probably was not yet aware of her presence in Winterfell.

One sour note of the day arrived in the form of Ser Axell Florent and the remaining 'queen's men', who had escorted Princess Shireen to White Harbor and then on to Winterfell. They numbered approximately one dozen, and all of them remained staunch followers of the Red God. Even though Shireen had indicated to Sansa that she wished to remain with Davos and his family, Ser Axell tried to force them to cede custody of the princess to him, shortly after the king had quit the great hall.

Ser Axell proved to be a most despicable, disagreeable individual. "The princess is my great-niece, Onion Knight, therefore you are not worthy of her company. Neither are these barbaric northmen. I shall keep her away from the hall until her father calls for her presence. If I had my way you'd be burning at a nightfire, as you obviously betrayed King Stannis."

Shireen spoke up, although very quietly and politely. "Ser Axell, if you please, I truly prefer to spend time with Lord Davos and Devan, as I consider them true friends." The barrel-chested Florent barely gave his great-niece a glance. "You are a princess, and therefore above the commoner blood of those types. You will come with me, for your protection."

Sansa decided to intervene, looking to both her older brother and her great-uncle for assistance. They in turn nodded to several clansmen, and they all quickly formed ranks around the Seaworths and Shireen. The southron knights opted not follow Ser Axell's lead, otherwise they all would have been slain, guest right or not. "Ser Axell, Princess Shireen is now under our protection as our guest. King Stannis will not appreciate it if his daughter comes to harm while under our roof." The disagreeable southron grumbled, but opted to leave well enough alone.

Ser Garlan approached Sansa. "My Lady, it appears my grandmother was mistaken after all. This man makes Stannis Baratheon appear most congenial. I shall assist your brother in Shireen's protection." She smiled in appreciation of Ser Garlan's gesture, reflecting that he must truly have changed in his opinion of King Stannis to admit that much to her.

Sansa left the logistics of quartering all the newcomers to her steward. She only instructed him to separate the southron knights, and to quarter them outside of the main keep. Only Shireen, the Seaworths, Lord Manderly and Ser Axell would receive rooms in the great keep. Then she approached her great-uncle.

"Uncle, please place those men who arrived with Ser Axell on outer keep duty, and maintain rotating shifts, separate from one another. I believe they will cause trouble otherwise. If anyone questions it, remind them that we have limited resources, and everyone must contribute." As Arms Master this task fell under the Blackfish's wide array of duties.

For the rest of the afternoon Sansa spent time with just her family. They started to swap stories, but nobody discussed anything really disturbing or upsetting. Rickon did talk about Bran, though.

"Jon, do you know where Bran went?" Jon blinked, and tried to answer Rickon the best he could. "I don't know, Rickon. We didn't even know you were alive until today. Are you saying Bran lived too, that Theon didn't kill him?"

Osha jumped in. "Them two youngsters, crannogfolk, took Bran and Hodor somewhere north. The boy, he kept talking about trees. They asked me to get young Rickon to safety. We ended up at Skagos because there wasn't no one to trust."

"Wait a minute - Bran went north? Trees, crannogmen? Jon, do you think it was the Reeds that took Bran north? Jojen and Meera?"

"That's their names. Jojen, Meera. Odd folk. Different." Osha didn't talk much, but she confirmed what Sansa and Jon were thinking. Bran may still be alive.

Arya hadn't spoken much during the afternoon, but she did perk up. "Sansa, you're the Lady of Winterfell, but now that Rickon is here, what will happen? And if Bran is still alive, isn't he technically Lord Stark now?"

"That's what we need to talk about, Arya. We have Robb's will, and in it he named Jon his heir. Stannis has asked Jon to become Lord Stark, and Jon and I agreed that would be best for Winterfell and the North. The Lord of Winterfell needs to be an adult and a proven leader, and Jon is both." Arya nodded in agreement.

Jon spoke up. "Arya, the Northern lords are fractious. It's not like it was when Father was alive. Right now we need stability and Stannis offers that. I'm willing to decline Stannis' offer of legitimization, and simply act as regent until Rickon comes of age instead, if that will appease them."

A chorus of NO's sounded throughout the room, including Rickon himself. "No, Jon, you look like Father, I remember. You're a man now. You have to be Lord. Not me." Sansa and Arya also argued in favor of Jon taking on the mantle of Lord Stark.

Ser Brynden spoke up. "Sansa, you need to tell them now, about the other half of the agreement."

Sansa sighed, then looked at Arya and Rickon. "In order to cement the ties between the North and King Stannis, I have agreed to marry him."

If Arya's eyes could have popped out of her head they would. "What!? That big man, the scarred one who wanted to kill Lord Manderly? He's scarier than the Hound. And he looks as old as our father would be."

"Arya, he's been here for months, and we have gotten to know each other. Trust me, he's a just man. Stannis is the North's best hope for stability and security. And this is my choice to make."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur for Sansa. She felt overwhelmed and relieved at their family's good fortune. But then her emotions churned with uncertainty as she thought back towards the complex man she was promised to marry. She found it difficult to reconcile the gentle words and touches he offered her with the terrifying, boundless rage he had displayed in the great hall.

Even though no feast had been planned, dinner in the great hall that evening turned into a crowded, raucous, joyful affair. Family reunions and new arrivals always presented a cause for celebration. All the Stark siblings, plus Lord Manderly, Princess Shireen and Lord Davos sat at the head table, but the king's place remained empty. No one had seen Stannis since he had threatened Lord Manderly earlier that day. Sansa tried to apologize to Manderly, but he laughed it off. "No worries, My Lady, and please, you are not responsible for his actions. I cannot blame our king for his reaction, though I am certainly glad that Lord Davos chose to intervene when he did." And with that Manderly laughed again and helped himself to another pastry.

Enough musicians were in residence that someone thought music and dancing might be in order, and Sansa did not object. Soon enough everyone was dancing, Sansa and her siblings included. She joined in the group dances and took turns with several men too, including Jon, Ser Brynden, Davos, Devan and Ser Garlan. While dancing with Ser Garlan Sansa felt as though she was being watched, but there was still no sign of the king.

After that dance the musicians took a break to give the dancers a rest, so she returned to the head table to join Davos, Brynden and Shireen.

Shireen, for her part, took her father's absence in stride, as did Davos. "I did not expect to see him this evening, Lady Sansa. His Grace does not care for social functions, or displays of emotion. Nor has he ever put much stock in familial relations beyond duty. Frankly, I am surprised at the vehemence he exhibited towards Lord Manderly. If I hadn't intervened I believe Lord Manderly would be dead. Truly, when Shireen told me that Devan himself was the one who killed Melisandre, I feared for my son's life. Since we departed White Harbor I worried constantly that Devan would have been executed as a traitor. Seeing him alive and well gives me cause for hope."

Brynden Tully spoke up. "Lord Davos, Stannis has changed quite a bit, I think, since the last time you saw or spoke with him. His recovery here since the battle so many months ago has been slow, full of difficulties and setbacks. Your supposed death affected him deeply, and he grieved for you. He has also harbored a long-lasting, deep-seated rage towards Manderly. It is difficult, I think, to give that deep hatred up in one quick moment."

Sansa chimed in. "As for Devan, His Grace pardoned your son for his role in saving Shireen's life. He said killing to save the life of an innocent is not murder or treason." Then Sansa addressed Shireen. "Princess, I don't think your father is even aware that you are here in Winterfell. Would you like me to take you to him?"

"Yes! No. I don't know. Perhaps you shouldn't, I don't wish to anger him. He seemed so angry, so terrifying earlier. And at Dragonstone, Mother told me I was only allowed to see him when he called for me, or the few times he might check on my lessons with our Maester." The girl looked increasingly sad as she recounted her story. "I was five the last time I approached him without permission, and Mother punished me for it. I rarely spent any time with my lord father at all. Please, do not bother His Grace on my account." At that, Shireen got up to visit with Devan, Arya and Rickon. Sansa watched as Shaggydog, whose head was level with Shireen's, licked her face, earning a laugh from the princess.

Sansa did not fail to notice the formal manner in which Shireen referenced her own father, or the sad look in the girl's eyes. She turned to Davos. "Is this true, Lord Davos? She seems so sad, yet happy when she's with you and your family."

"Unfortunately, yes. But, do not judge His Grace too harshly. It was Selyse who mostly kept Shireen away from him, and he mostly kept himself away from both Selyse and Dragonstone. Theirs was a cold, miserable union. Shireen is not alone now - Marya and I love the princess as we love our own sons." Davos looked upon his oldest son and the princess with fondness while the two chatted.

Determined, Sansa stood up. "I WILL find our king, and make sure that he is at least informed of his only child's arrival here at Winterfell." And with that, Sansa quit the hall in search of her king and future husband.

Entering the upstairs den Sansa's eyes were immediately drawn to the long-legged form of the king, who sat, slouching, in a chair near the fireplace. "My King?" Sansa walked towards the fireplace slowly, unsure of his current mood. What she perceived from him felt muddy, and certainly troubled.

"My Lady. You are betrothed, aye? Yet you danced with near half a dozen men, none of them the man you have pledged to wed." Stannis' voice was absolutely neutral, betraying no emotion, only cold observation. He continued to stare at the flames.

Sansa felt stung by his distant formality. His words caused her to suspect that Stannis may actually be jealous. "It is my belief that my brother, my uncle, a squire and two married men should not count as competition. Tonight we are celebrating the reunion of families. And, I would have danced with my betrothed, if he had but asked." She stepped closer, hoping he would warm up to her.

Stannis scoffed. "Dance, this half-crippled old stag? Foolishness, and I assure you, not a pleasant sight."

Confidence waivering, Sansa answered with a combination of trepidation and defiance. "Your Grace, would it please you if I never set foot on the dance floor again?" _What does he want?_

"No." No longer cold and distant, Stannis now only sounded resigned.

She dared to sit down on the rug in front of the fireplace, close to his chair. "Then what troubles you so? I can sense you are bothered, but that doesn't mean I can read your mind. I thought learning that Lord Davos yet lives would please you."

"Long have I carried the overwhelming urge to spill Manderly's blood, on account of Davos' death. Supposed death. Long have I mourned Davos. He is my friend, and always spoke truth, without caring a whit what might happen to himself. I threatened him more times than I can count, but still he counseled me with wisdom, when I had none of my own. I told the Blackfish it took his death, supposed death, for me to realize this. And now, my view of events has been turned upside down. Again. Seeing my Hand alive and well, defending Manderly, was a sight that initially did not make sense. It is difficult for me to release long-held fury at the drop of a hat." Stannis stood up and reached his hand down to help Sansa to her feet as well. He looked at her ruefully. "Yet now, I find it has disappeared entirely. You have a knack, it would seem, in banishing whatever melancholy seems fit to pester me."

Playful now, Sansa could not help but tease him, at least a little. "And my dancing? Will that cause you despair again? Today is a joyous affair, My King, one for celebration."

Stannis gently tugged Sansa up against him, hands around her waist. "Aye, despair perhaps, but it shall be short lived, so long as you remember that you are mine, Wolf-Girl. Has my mark faded already? Perhaps I should refresh it, as a reminder." So he really was jealous of her dancing earlier in the evening! At that he bent to kiss her, more possessively and forcefully than he had done since that night in the Godswood.

Sansa responded readily to her king, reaching for his face and neck, opening her lips and letting his tongue explore her own. She pressed herself along his own hard body as they kissed, but then broke it off quickly. Breathing faster than usual, she placed her hands flat on his chest, hoping he understood that as a signal to pause. "A dance is just a dance, but I am yours and yours alone, My King. However, I must return to the hall. And, you too might consider it."

Stannis stiffened a bit and pulled back, suspicious. "Why? My presence will surely impede any celebration."

Exasperated, Sansa shook her head. "Because a young girl wants to see her father, that's why."

"Shireen? How?" The prickly, distant king suddenly turned into a curious and surprised man.

"Yes, Shireen. Ser Axell brought her to White Harbor, where they had taken refuge with Lord Manderly these past six months." Sansa could tell that Stannis had turned upset, mostly with himself, by the way he frowned and ground his teeth.

She continued, seriously now. "She saw you in the great hall today, when you threatened Lord Manderly. And, I have spoken with her a few times today already. When you see your daughter, try to see things, see yourself, from her point of view. Please."

Stannis turned away and paced the length of the room, limping much more noticeably now. "Don't play with words. What you mean to say is that my daughter fears me, her own father." He took Sansa's silence as tacit acknowledgment. "In that, I doubt much has changed." Once again she could sense the bitterness aimed at himself, and realized that this man loved deeply, when he gave it, and ached terribly from loss, when that occurred.

Sansa walked back to him, and took his hand in her own. "The wars, these trying years, have changed all of us. Arya and Rickon are not the same as I knew them four years ago, as Jon and I are no longer the same. Jon and I started our relationship all over again, and we are closer now than we ever were growing up. I have come to know you these past many months, and my life is the better for it. The same is true with Uncle Brynden. Perhaps you can start all over again with Shireen, and Davos too."

Stannis snorted quietly, but nodded his assent. Sansa thought that his mannerisms and actions so often resembled the wild stag that he compared himself to, like when he had nipped her in the godswood, or earlier this day, pacing and snarling angrily while confronting Lord Manderly.

A rough, Flea-Bottom accent broke through their silence. "Truer wisdom, Your Grace, I don't think I've heard from one so young before today." Davos Seaworth stood just inside the open doorway, looking upon Sansa with great respect.

King Stannis looked resolutely down at Sansa, then nodded and strode to his Hand. When Davos made to kneel, Stannis caught him by the shoulders, then pulled him close. All she could hear was Stannis saying, "Davos", in a rather choked up voice. Sansa made to leave the room and pull the door shut to give the two friends some privacy when the king's voice gave her pause.

"Wolf-Girl." She turned to see the two had separated, yet still lingered near one another. Stannis kept one hand on Davos' shoulder, as if he needed that physical connection to prove his old friend truly stood next to him. "Bring my daughter here. I would see her now, without a large audience."

A short while later Sansa escorted Shireen into the den, accompanied by Ghost and Ser Brynden. The older knight and Jon both stated that there were too many unfamiliar faces within Winterfell now, and neither girl should go without protection.

Sansa did her best to allay the princess' worries as they approached the room. "Princess, your father very much so wishes to see you again. Please do not fear him, despite what you saw earlier today. He has truly worried about your fate this past half year. And, between you and me, I think he is anxious and unsure about your reaction towards him."

"Are you sure? My father isn't afraid of anything. He's too fierce."

Stannis stood quickly from his chair upon seeing his daughter enter the room. Neither Baratheon spoke, as they simply looked at each other with identical, dark blue eyes. The king limped towards his daughter slowly, with myriad emotions flitting across his face. Pausing a few steps away, Stannis perceived his daughter's continued anxiety, and then did something that neither Sansa nor anyone else in the room expected he would ever do. Grimacing in pain, the king lowered his large frame down to kneel on one knee, so that he would not tower over his small daughter.

No longer fearful, Shireen stepped towards her father, and reached out to touch the scars on his face. "Papa?" She hadn't called him that since she was five years old. Stannis' gruff voice rumbled low - familiar, comforting and protective. "Aye, lass." Then Shireen tumbled into her father's arms, holding onto him as if he might disappear into thin air.

Sleep came slowly to Sansa that night. She and Arya spent half the night talking before finally yawning and giving in to slumber. Rickon and Shaggydog were sharing Jon's room for now as well. None of the siblings wanted to be alone, for fear that today's reunion would turn out to be nothing more than a wishful dream. Before falling asleep, Arya confided to Sansa that she often dreamed she was a wolf, running with a large pack near a river.

"Arya, Uncle Brynden said that a large direwolf had been spotted with a pack of regular wolves in the Riverlands - I bet that's Nymeria. Jon thinks we are all wargs. I know he can merge with Ghost, and Rickon seems half wolf already. You should try to call Nymeria home. She's a direwolf, and belongs here in the North, with you." With a pang of sadness, Sansa finally fell asleep, wondering how her life might be different if Lady had survived.

_The chestnut colored wolf pup nudged her dam, but the mother direwolf only sighed and turned a little in her sleep. The little direwolf pup was the only one in her litter to survive; the other pups had been killed by a bear. Since that attack, the mother wolf had moved this little she-wolf to a new den, partially up a cliff, along a terrace about ten feet wide._

_The mother wolf had been injured by the bear the previous week, and had weakened considerably since then. The little pup crawled over to the other side of the den, where the remains of a doe lay, and took a few more bites. The pup's mother had dragged the carcass into their den earlier that evening, and both had fed until they were stuffed._

_Having slept for several hours, the pup now wanted to play, but her dam didn't wake. Feeling adventurous, the pup wandered to the entrance of their den and looked out upon the moonlit landscape. She ran out onto the terrace and leaped through the powdery snow. Then a strange snort caused the pup to freeze, and then try to run back towards her den and her dam. Running too fast for her little legs, she stumbled and fell into a large shadow. It didn't smell like bear, but it was so big. A large, long face bent down to sniff at the pup, huge antlered rack sweeping back from its head. The king stag! Even her dam hadn't seen fit to challenge the king of the forest. The young wolf pup tucked her tail between her legs and cowered low, trying to look as small as possible. The stag stomped his foot, then bent his head down again and nudged the pup, ever so gently, back into her den. The stag snorted and stomped once more, then trotted off down the slope. The pup curled up next to her mother, seeking warmth and safety._

Sansa awoke, thinking how realistic her dream had felt, almost as if she was the wolf pup. Even the king stag in the dream had behaved much like her own stag king - stern, commanding and protective. But then she quickly settled back to sleep, rationalizing that it was only wistful thinking on her part, and that she and Arya had spent too much time talking about wargs and direwolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feed the comment beast! :-)


	17. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis POV

_The king stag stepped slowly through the trees as he made his way up the rocky slope. The doe's path clearly led towards a cliff face not far ahead. She had wandered off from his herd hours ago, and had not responded to his calls. The moon had risen, making his journey that much easier. Abruptly he stopped and sniffed. The tangy scent of her blood still lingered, along with another scent - the odor of danger. A wolf! Standing absolutely still, the king stag listened intently, ears turning constantly, all the while smelling the air, attempting to discern both animals' locations._

_Trotting further up the slope, the stag stopped again, near an outcropping of jagged boulders. He could see where the doe had leapt from, and where she had landed, right in a crack in the rocks. Blood lay in the snow around the boulders, along with the remains of one front leg. The doe had caught her leg and it had broken. The direwolf had had an easy time finishing her off. The stag followed the trail of blood and wolf prints through the snow. The direwolf had dragged the carcass up and away from the rocks, towards a high flat area, instead of feeding right there. Approaching the terrace, the stag smelled two wolves, but one smelled wrong, sick somehow._

_Once on the terrace the stag easily spotted the direwolf's den. Movement appeared at the mouth of the tiny cave, then a little wolf pup bounded out into the snow. The pup leaped, frolicked, and rolled in the snow, playing and cavorting much like his own fawns were wont to do. Then the stag snorted with anger. This small pup would one day grow large, and kill more of his own kind. The pup froze, then tried to run through the snow towards her den, but her clumsy short legs couldn't keep up with her body's momentum. The little direwolf pup stumbled right into the stag's front leg. He snorted and bent his head to sniff her, as she tried to hide in his shadow. By rights he should stomp her into a pulp right now, but something else, a commanding thought not entirely his own, prevented him from taking that act. Sniffing the air, the stag sensed that the mother direwolf neared death. But not this pup. She has a purpose. Gently, so gently, the king stag nudged the little pup back into her den. The doe's carcass would sustain her._

_With the pup safe in her den, the king stag snorted and stomped once more as a warning, then trotted on down the slope. He paused briefly to regard the strange tree in a clearing. This one had eyes that sometimes bled, and smooth pale bark unlike any other tree in the forest. Deep down the old king stag felt as though his final challenge would soon take place here, at this tree. His rival was close, and their battle would be his undoing. An old stag will fall, and a new one will rise._

Stannis woke slowly as sunlight streaming through the openings between the drapes danced across his face. He blinked several times and shook his head to clear the last vestiges of the stag's consciousness from his own mind. As the weeks had progressed the stag dreams had become more frequent, and far more tangible and realistic. Several times now he had also connected with the stag during waking hours, and no longer had any doubt that the animal existed out in the woods beyond Winterfell. He had stopped resisting the connection and in fact welcomed each contact. The primal sensations, strong surges of wild power that swept through his blood and soul were nearly consuming at times, yet he welcomed them for their authenticity and raw strength. Each time he merged with the stag his soul felt more whole and complete; it was as though he and the stag were meant to become one entity. Even his senses of smell and hearing had become more acute and more nuanced. He was able to detect the smallest changes with people, their scents indicating fear, pleasure, truth or deceit.

He also had to admit that his own behavior had turned far more feral in the past several weeks, as the contacts with the stag had increased, yet he did not find fault with himself on that score. Marking Sansa had been a simple matter of staking his claim on his soon-to-be mate. Stannis refused to apologize for his display of raw rage and bloodlust yesterday either. His desire to take Manderly's life was perfectly justified based on the information he'd had available at the time.

He woke more completely as he heard a rustling and sighing sound coming from the couch in his chamber. Lifting his head, he perceived the shape of his still sleeping daughter on the couch, tangled amidst the blankets he had covered her with the previous night. She had fallen asleep in the den, exhausted from traveling, and he had carried her to his room without her stirring at all. He hadn't wanted her to wake up alone in a strange castle.

Thankful that he had the foresight to keep his pants on, Stannis extricated himself from the covers as quietly as possible, so as not to wake Shireen. Shivering slightly as the cool air struck his bare torso, he sat on the edge of the bed and strapped the heavy leather brace around his leg.

"Father, it's true! I didn't dream it after all." Frowning a little, he looked over to Shireen, who was apparently wide awake after all. Misunderstanding his frown, she grew somber. "I apologize Father. I tried not to fall asleep last night in that room, I know it was unseemly of me."

Grunting an acknowledgment, he nodded and went back to buckling on the brace. Shireen stood up and immediately set to work at helping her father. He marveled at how small she appeared for her age. _One more effect of grayscale._ Still, her mind was sharp and clear.

Once the brace was secure Shireen looked up to study the numerous scars scattered across her father's broad bare chest and arms. Even though he was uncomfortable with the scrutiny and painfully aware of the impropriety, Stannis still allowed her to examine the marks on his body. As his heir she might someday be required to send men into battle; she should know the cost. 

Her curious fingers followed the path of a particularly nasty scar on his left shoulder. He had received that wound during the Greyjoy Rebellion, many years ago. "Did you get all these scars and injuries during battles, Father?"

"Aye. In war, men fight, get injured, die. That is the cost. And sometimes, the price is too high. One man's pride often leads to the death of tens of thousands, and destruction of the land and the kingdom." _Mine own pride, and my brother's before me, did just that._ Stannis paused to make sure he had Shireen's complete attention. Her eyes grew wide, but she remained silent and attentive.

"As a leader it is my duty to decide when to fight, and when not to. The choice is never easy, and never should be. You must understand this, daughter, but I hope you will never have to make those decisions." If he finished this campaign correctly, Westeros should see peace for many years, perhaps even generations.

Much like the night before, Shireen's hand once again reached out to trace the prominent dark red scars that stretched across her father's cheek. "These aren't battle scars. Why do you have these marks, Father? Was it...R'hllor, or Lady Melisandre?" The last part Shireen spoke with considerable trepidation, he could tell. Her scent betrayed a hint of fear and uncertainty. Whether from remembered fear at nearly being burned to death by Melisandre, or fear that he still followed the Red God, Stannis could not be sure. Regardless, his tolerance for being pawed at had reached its limits. Snorting softly, he nudged her hand away with a tilt of his head.

Although he had never believed in protecting his daughter from hard truth, Stannis was not yet willing to explain the motivations that led to his self-inflicted scars. A vague answer would have to suffice. "R'hllor had nothing to do with these, Shireen. And no, before you ask, I do not follow the Red God. These are reminders I gave myself."

She gasped with horror, disbelief clearly expressed in her voice. "You...you cut yourself? Why? I don't understand."

Exasperated with the line of questioning and patience wearing thin, Stannis answered her curtly as he intended to close the subject. "Aye. You will understand when you are older. No more of this."

Still, her curiosity trumped good manners as she broached a different subject. "Why do you have to wear this brace, Father?"

"I cannot walk without it."

No longer quite so bitter as he had been months ago, he still keenly felt the limitations that his injury had placed upon him. And although he did not speak it aloud, the word _cripple_ came to his mind far too readily. Stannis also hoped Shireen never learned of the larger price he paid for his pride - the ghosts that wandered around in his head, haunting the tattered remains of his soul, taking over his thoughts and perceptions at any hour. _Broken._

"I'm sorry, Father." Sadness seeped into Shireen's now somber voice and manifested itself on the unmarred half of her face. Stannis felt irked by her words, as he did not welcome her pity.

"Why?" He barked harshly. "You did not cause this."

Shireen blanched and jumped back as her father stood abruptly. Rattled a bit by his harsh words, she tried to stammer out a further apology until he cut her off with a curt word and gesture. "Stop."

Realizing he had spoken too sharply, Stannis reached out and placed both hands on his daughter's thin shoulders. "Shireen, you have done nothing wrong. Apologies are not required. Am I clear?" He had lowered his voice to mitigate his normally rough tone. He did not wish to undo the rapport that had started to build between them. It seemed to have succeeded as he felt her relax beneath his hands, and she nodded in agreement.

"Enough of this somber talk. I will have Devan escort you to his mother; Lady Marya will get you ready for the day. And then Lady Sansa will get you settled in a proper chamber of your own. We shall speak again soon enough."

After an hour spent training with Ser Brynden, later that morning Stannis strode into the great hall seeking Sansa and Jon. He wanted to take Jon's oath in front of the present Northmen as soon as possible. The sooner Jon officially became Lord Stark, the better. He spotted both of them seated near the large hearth, deep in conversation with Davos Seaworth. The three all rose upon his approach, but Sansa also stepped forward to greet her king with a bright smile and flawlessly executed curtsy.

Nodding acknowledgments to the two men, Stannis greeted Sansa in his usual manner. "Wolf-Girl." He didn't notice the surprised yet pleased look pass across Davos' face.

Jon spoke up. "Your Grace, Lord Davos has been filling us in on the various political scheming the Lannisters plotted with the Boltons, as well as giving us the details of his journeys and the story behind Rickon's stay on Skagos. It is quite a tale."

"I will speak with Davos at length, about that and more. Concerning other matters, I would have you give me your oath in front of all the noblemen present here in Winterfell, and solidify their loyalties. You and Lady Sansa need to schedule this soon, as time runs short." Stannis detested ceremonies, but grudgingly acknowledged that a public legitimization for Jon would be in all their best interests.

Jon responded readily. "Yes, Your Grace, we will see to it at once. There is already a feast planned for tomorrow evening, so we will incorporate that as well."

"One more thing, Wolf-Lord. Your first official duty as Lord Stark should be to publicly announce the betrothal of your sister to your king, no?"

Jon's expression turned blank upon hearing the king's words, and he answered almost woodenly, "Yes, Your Grace." Then he departed in search of the steward, but bade Ghost to remain in Sansa's company.

Sansa and Stannis both frowned somewhat as they watched Jon leave the great hall. He couldn't read her thoughts, but could see she was somewhat troubled by her brother's sullen response.

"Wolf-Girl, any half-blind fool can see that your brother has reservations." It pained him, but he needed to tell Sansa she still had choices. "If you wish to reconsider, I will not force a marriage upon you."

She reached out and touched his arm, giving him a soft smile. "My King, this is _my_ choice, and I am glad to make it and keep it. Jon will have to make his own peace with it." Her mere touch sent a shiver down his spine - it communicated far more than her words alone ever could. The gentle, uninhibited touches Sansa so willingly proffered to _him_ without hesitation demonstrated the full sincerity of her words. Stannis could scarcely believe that she would waste her affections on him, a broken old stag, yet his new slightly enhanced perceptions informed him of the honesty of those affections.

Then a thoughtful look flitted across her face. "Speaking of family, have you told the princess of our betrothal?"

Stannis frowned and scrubbed at his beard - it hadn't even occurred to him. "I have not, but that doesn't mean she is unaware. I find it hard to believe that Devan would not have mentioned it to her by now."

Davos spoke up then. Stannis had momentarily forgotten his presence. "Your Grace, Devan told us and the princess too. She seemed quite pleased with the news."

Thinking of his daughter, the king addressed Sansa once more. "My Lady, I would have Shireen accompany you as you go about your duties. There is much you can teach her, and she will benefit from the companionship of another lady close to her own age."

Guilt flooded through Stannis briefly, considering that he would soon take a girl not much older than his own daughter as his mate. He better understood now why Jon Snow and Ser Brynden Tully did not view the impending wedding with much enthusiasm. The mere thought of any man near his own age and considerably large size bedding Shireen in just three short years frankly turned his stomach.

Stannis' thoughts and feelings concerning Sansa were most definitely _not_ paternal, however, but far more base in nature. It had become increasingly difficult to keep his own lust in check lately, especially as he'd become gradually aware of her heady, earthy, mysterious _woman_ scent. It had nearly driven him to distraction on more than one occasion. He'd taken himself in hand several times over the past few weeks to get the edge off, and to help him keep the promise he'd made to Ser Brynden. Tempting as it was, he would wait until they swore marriage vows before he took her.

"Of course, My King. I will seek her out directly." Granting the king and Davos another brilliant smile and curtsy, Sansa departed the great hall in search of Shireen, Ghost padding by her side.

Stannis asked a servant to fetch his and Davos' cloaks and furs. He wanted to speak with Davos in private, and knew the conversation would last for at least a few hours.

"Walk with me, Davos. Today it would seem my leg is cooperating." Together the two men exited the great hall and toured the grounds of Winterfell, viewing the reconstruction efforts. Davos mostly talked, and Stannis listened as he heard his Hand's tale of the past two years.

Eventually they traversed past the the training yard, where they stopped to rest and watch the men sparring in the yard. Davos took the opportunity to ask his king about what had occurred at the Wall, Deepwood Motte and the Wolfswood. "Tell me, Your Grace, how did you manage to convince all those mountain clansmen to join you?" 

Stannis huffed. "I followed Lord Snow's counsel. We traveled through the mountains and wined and dined those stubborn clansmen. Knowing the Ironborn had taken over Deepwood Motte helped convince them to join me. And once I restored the Glovers to their rightful home, the Mormonts, clansmen and numerous other northmen joined my cause. But the march to Winterfell took its toll, and we paid a terrible price. Starvation nearly destroyed us all. That, and the splintering factions of northmen, southrons who followed the Seven, and those who followed R'hllor. In the end our common enemies were the Boltons, the bitter cold and gnawing hunger..."

The king's voice trailed off, and his face grew blank. He did not see the men training in the yard; the scene swirling before his eyes transformed once again into the Wolfswood, snow blown by the wind, horses whinnying, men screaming, swords clashing. The coppery scent of blood filled his nose, so fresh, so real...the noise and chaos of the battlefield in the snowy woods so immediate, encircling, trapping him...empty belly growling from such a hunger...He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and bent his head into his hands, wanting only for the images and sensations to disappear.

"Your Grace?" The quiet voice to his left and the hand shaking his shoulder caused Stannis to startle and jerk around, only to see his friend looking at him with a concerned expression. Despite the cold air sweat had broken out across his head and face, and he was breathing heavily. Momentarily confused, Stannis shook his head and took several deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself and dismiss the flashback from his immediate thoughts.

Stannis reached out and clasped Davos' shoulder for just a moment. Reassuring himself that his friend truly stood by his side, he then pulled out a small pouch of tobac from his pocket with a shaking hand. If ever he needed something to help him settle, now was the time. Sitting down on a bale of straw, he fiddled with the straps on his brace and studiously avoided Davos' gaze.

He felt, rather than saw, Davos sit next to him on the large bale. "Marya made me quit chewing tobac when you awarded us with Cape Wrath. She said it wasn't courteous for proper folk to use it, and we were proper folk now."

Stannis huffed out what might have been a laugh, and spat. "Ha. And out of all these years that you have known me, have I ever cared for courtesy?"

"Not so far as I recall, Sire. And your betrothed, does she have an opinion? She is a most courteous and gracious young lady."

Stannis scoffed at the thought, and looked off towards the godswood. He remembered the night he had so wantonly kissed Sansa, and marked her as his own. "The Wolf-Girl is truly a gift, Davos. She accepts me as I am, even with this small vice of mine. She has seen me at the bottom, at my very worst. Aye, far worse than even you have seen, and yet she still stands by me, young as she is. I am at ease in her company as with few others."

"Remarkable, Your Grace. All the more so as Devan tells me these past many months have not been easy for you." Trust Davos to find a way to circle back to the issue at hand.

Finally looking Davos in the eye, Stannis was truly grateful that he could not detect any pity, only concern. "You wish to know?"

Davos merely tilted his head. "Up to you, I s'pose. All I know is that one moment you were here, the next, you were....elsewhere."

The king's face flushed red and he looked away as he felt shame at the idea of admitting his weakness, his _brokenness_ , to Davos. But he owed his old friend the truth. "Ghosts and demons, Davos, of my own making. They tend to plague me at the most inopportune of times. Ser Brynden calls it battle sickness. In my head, I experience the battle again as if for the first time. It happens less often now, but still I cannot control it."

"When these...images...first came on, I dismissed them. But they continued and increased in frequency. I could not function. The realization that I was permanently injured by the sword blow weighed heavily, as well as...despair. I sought solace in ooska, choosing drunken numbness over pain and despair. Yet even drunk the images still plagued me." Stannis chanced to look at Davos again, seeing shock in his old friend's expression. "Aye. A drunkard I became, for months on end without pause."

Davos looked troubled. "I thought Devan spoke falsely, or exaggerated. He mentioned headaches and memory lapses, due to some accident he had here, but he didn't tell me why. So I assumed he had only imagined your troubles. This war has not been easy."

Stannis looked away from Davos, conflicted. Obviously he did not yet know that Stannis himself had injured Devan, and that the ramifications may yet be permanent. The boy still suffered from some short term memory loss, lack of balance, dizziness and headaches, and occasional stuttering. He had no choice but to tell Davos exactly what had happened to his son.

Taking a deep breath, Stannis stood and starting walking across the yard. Davos kept pace. He had something else to tell his Hand first.

"You may wonder, my Lord Hand, how I convinced Sansa Stark and her brother to agree to a marriage between us."

"Yes, Your Grace, considering her youth, I am surprised, but I assumed you demanded her hand as part of the pact between the North and yourself. They could hardly say no."

"I demanded nothing but their loyalty, Davos. As for Lady Sansa, there is an affinity that has developed between us. I asked her freely - she alone made the choice, and is still free to say no should she choose. I will not force myself on such a young girl."

Davos relaxed, and smiled. "I am truly pleased Your Grace. From what I have seen thus far, Lady Sansa will make a strong, well-loved queen for Westeros, and for her king."

Looking away, Stannis realized what he was about to do may be one of his most difficult decisions, and he would come away the loser. "There is more, Davos. As I gave Sansa the choice, so now I give it to you. You have served me faithfully for nearly twenty years; I release you now from any further bound service. I cannot in good conscience compel you to serve me through obligation any longer. Stay if you will stay, go if you will go."

Davos stuttered with shock, unable to form any coherent words. "Your, Your Grace...I, I...don't understand. Have I displeased you?"

Stannis shook his head, then walked over to stand in the spot where he had struck Devan a few months earlier. Terrible memories and broken images continued to flood his mind. _Focus_. "No Davos, you have not displeased me. I meant what I said. Do I not always?"

"Then, why?"

Not answering directly, Stannis instead turned in a circle on the spot where he stood. He clenched his fist and raised it slightly, reliving the shattered memories of what he had done to his squire.

"It was here, Davos." He turned to regard his Hand, fist raised in the same manner as if he was to backhand someone. "Here I stood, drunk and angry. Shattered thoughts clashing in my head. Mine own fist striking out, sending your boy flying to land in the snow - unconscious, unmoving, injured, perhaps permanently."

The congenial expression ran away from Davos' face, replaced by disbelief. He involuntarily stepped back from the king, aghast with horror. "No...it cannot be...it must be a mistake, an accident, you have never struck anyone in your service."

"Aye, it is true. I do not lie, Davos. I struck Devan at full strength, and nearly killed him." Stannis steeled himself as Davos's stance changed to hostility when realization set in. "Ser Brynden Tully can fill in the details. He was here, and prevented me from causing any more damage."

A loud shocked gasp from behind diverted Stannis' attention. Shireen stood there with her great-uncle Ser Lomas, obviously having heard the entire exchange. He took a step towards her, but she backed away quickly, anger and fear replacing shock.

"No. No! Poor Devan will never be the same again! How could you? You ARE a violent monster! I hate you! I wish you were not my father!" And she took off running and disappeared inside the great hall.

Turning back towards Davos, Stannis felt his heart slowly turn cold, as his Hand also turned to walk away, disdain clear with every step. Davos had not spoken, nor had he had asked the king's leave to depart, but Stannis did not call him out. But the look of shear pity and concern his uncle Ser Lomas cast his way was enough to ignite the Fury kindling within his soul.

"Nephew, Shireen is a child still, I am sure she did not mean what she said..." The pity in Lomas' voice was enough to nearly send Stannis into a full rage, and he turned on his uncle with a snarl.

"Spare me platitudes, Ser Lomas. I do not require pity, or concern, or _comfort_." And as the king walked away an icy cold fist gripped his heart, which quickly solidified to impenetrable stone.


	18. Reconsideration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Multiple POVs - Davos has doubts, Shireen gains perspective, and Sansa learns that she really ought to listen to uncles.

Davos all but ran inside the great hall and ascended the stairs two at a time, determined to find his son Devan and demand the whole truth. He could hardly believe that Stannis, his liege-lord and king, a man who purportedly believed in justice, would have struck such a devastating blow to any boy in his service.

He first went directly to Devan's chamber, but the room proved to be empty. Davos proceeded to the generous chambers that Lady Sansa had given him and Marya. Well proportioned, the chamber was really two rooms, with an ante-chamber used for sitting, working and conversation, and a rear chamber that held a comfortably sized bed. In truth the room was larger than his own lord's chamber at Cape Wrath. Once inside he found Marya and their two younger boys Steff and Stanny seated in the ante-chamber, but Devan was not present. The boys were practicing writing their letters on slate tablets in a brightly lit corner near a window, and had not noticed their father's arrival. Davos paused to watch his youngest boys for a moment, then frowned as Stanny started to cough. It was a harsh, bubbly sound, and left the boy winded for a moment.

"Marya, how long has Stanny been coughing like that? That doesn't sound good."

"Both boys have been coughing off and on all day, which is why I've kept them inside. I've half a mind to have the healer examine them if it doesn't go away."

"And Devan, has he been coughing too?" Davos was concerned that all of his boys might fall ill.

Marya shook her head. "No."

"Speaking of Devan, do you know where he is? I haven't seen him for several hours now, and I need to talk to him. It's important." Speaking low, Davos tried to keep the anxiety and anger out of his voice, but he should have known better than to fool his wife of so many years.

"He's asleep on our bed, Davos. A bad headache and dizzy spell came on him, so bad he could hardly speak or stand up straight. I sent him to bed and fetched a healer. The healer, Storgand I think his name is, gave Devan a sleeping draught. He said these headaches and dizzy spells had been going on for weeks, and probably would continue for months yet." Truly puzzled, Marya continued to speak her thoughts. "The strange part is that Healer Storgand would not tell me the cause. He said Devan had to tell me himself. Then he became really nervous and left the room, assuring me that when Devan wakes up in a few hours that he'd feel better. Don't tell me you don't have some idea now - I can read you, husband. What happened to our son?"

Davos sat down next to his wife and continued to speak low. He did not want the boys to hear this particular conversation. "I hardly can believe it, Marya, but he told me himself. The king. Stannis...he did this. He struck Devan, a blow so terrible it broke those bones in his face, and gave him a terrible concussion and these spells."

Marya sucked in a deep, shocked breath. "Oh! Oh, _that man_ , that terrible, evil man! I knew being indebted to him would bring us no good! First he took your hand, then he took away our four beautiful sons to their deaths, and now he's harmed Devan, possibly forever. How can you possibly still serve him, Davos? Better we steal away, back to Braavos, than serve him another day!" Tears streamed down Marya's angry, red face as she tried to process all that had happened to her family. In her mind, all of it was laid squarely at the king's feet.

Davos held her while she cried. "I will talk to Ser Brynden Tully and try to get the whole story. He's been here at Winterfell all the while. Stannis himself admitted that he was drunk and angry, and certainly not in his right mind. He might not even have been aware it was Devan when he lashed out. Just today, the king had a spell of his own, Marya, right in front of me. He is not entirely well either." Davos spoke words of reason as much for himself as for his wife, but he was tired, so very tired, of trying to justify any more continued loyalty towards the king. In fact, he had been doing just that ever since Melisandre had first shown up at Dragonstone. He also could not help but speculate that Stannis _had_ intended to hit Devan in retaliation for Melisandre's death.

She pulled back from him, astonished. "How can you possibly even think about defending that man? You have been drunk and angry before. Yet you haven't ever done what he did to our boy, Davos. It's no excuse. A man as powerful as Stannis Baratheon can maim or kill with little difficulty and zero consequences. The result of his lack of control lays on our bed right now! I want to be as far away from him as possible. For good. Service to that man has brought us nothing but sorrow these past several years."

Sighing, Davos nodded in agreement. "You're right. We have lost almost everything, except our three youngest boys and each other. That we still have. And now we have the freedom to leave."

Marya sniffled and glared at her husband. "What do you mean, freedom? We are indebted to that man forever. The only way to leave him is to run away, Davos."

"No Marya. Before he told me what he did to Devan, King Stannis freed me from his service and any further obligation. We _are_ free of him, if we choose. Free under the law, with no reprisals." As he spoke aloud, Davos wondered if this was Stannis' way of manipulating him into remaining in the king's service. Somehow hoping to keep, or regain, loyalty by giving the choice to stay or go before speaking the truth concerning Devan? Or, did Stannis truly feel guilt and sorrow for having injured his squire so terribly? Davos doubted that - Stannis had refused to acknowledge his guilt in the deaths of Renly or Ser Cortney Penrose - why should he admit any wrongdoing in what he'd done to Devan? In fact, he hadn't. All he had told Davos were the facts. Sorrow and guilt had not entered into the conversation. And, knowing Stannis, it never would.

"I'll get all the facts from Ser Brynden Tully, Marya, and then we should both talk to Devan once he wakes. Then I'll decide." Mind made up, Davos looked in the other room to gaze upon his still sleeping son, then hugged Marya and left in search of the Blackfish, and the whole truth.

********************************************

 _My father is a monster. Evil, terrible monster._ Shireen ran and ran through the large building, not paying attention to the corridors or doorways that she rushed by, eyes too full of tears to take in details. Eventually she entered a remote inner hallway, old stone walls dimly lit by sparsely placed torches. Her lungs burning, Shireen paused for just a moment to lean against the wall and catch her breath. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, they hurt so much. Desperate to find a hiding place away from prying eyes, and her father, she followed this corridor at a much slower pace until it ended at a narrow staircase leading down a number of steps. Curious now yet still fearful of the king's wrath, the princess counted as she descended the steps - 1, 2, 3...26, 27, 28 - until they ended at a stout wooden door.

The sturdy door was reinforced with iron straps, and appeared to be quite heavy. Shireen noted that it was cracked open, and some light appeared through the opening. Voices and scuffling sounds echoed through the corridor from up the stairs behind her. Shireen quickly grabbed the lit torch that was seated in the sconce next the wooden door, and pushed her way through the door and closed it quietly behind her. Then she turned around to see where she had ended up.

Besides her own torch, the only other light within the spacious room emanated from the corner opposite where she now stood, but it was occluded by a number of tall shelves. Rows upon rows of swords, pikes, ring mail and other assorted weapons stretched before her, hanging from the walls and laid out upon various shelves. Leather straps hung from hooks, and rolled hides were suspended over her head. The room's floor was fairly clean, and she did not detect any dust, dirt or rust on the weapons. _This must be Winterfell's arms room._

Fear and loathing of her father momentarily forgotten, Shireen took a few moments to explore the room. She had never seen anything else quite like it, as her life at Dragonstone had been very confined. She wandered down one row, stopping periodically to touch this sword or that piece of armor, fascinated with the craftsmanship and detail that went into each piece. She even picked up one smaller sword, wondering if she might ever be strong enough to wield it someday. Then she put it back, dismissing that idea as utter folly. In her head those two words sounded just like her father's cold harsh voice, which brought a new tightness to her throat as she tried to keep tears at bay. The scuff of a boot coming from behind her caused to gasp and spin around, ready to run.

"Tell me, child, what brings a princess to seek out Winterfell's remote arms room?" The kind voice and face of Brynden Tully, seated on a bench against the wall, helped alleviate her fears. He patted the bench by his side. "Come sit for a moment, and catch your breath."

Shireen wiped her eyes and slowly walked towards the knight. "Ser Brynden, I apologize for disturbing you, I just..I just wanted to find a quiet place to be for a while, away from everyone else." He nodded sagely as she sat next to him. For some reason the famous Blackfish seemed so calm, like a safe harbor in a storm. She was grateful to have found him, even though that hadn't been her goal. Once again, her curiosity lifted its head. "What is this place, and why are you here? It's so far from the rest of Winterfell."

Pleased with her open curiosity, Ser Brynden was quite happy to explain. "This is an auxiliary arms room. The main arms room is actually in a separate building near the training yard, but this room is only known to a few people. I come here periodically to maintain these weapons and equipment, to make sure they are ready should they be needed. I am Winterfell's Master of Arms - it is my job to make sure all the weapons and fighters are kept in proper condition."

Shireen found the knight's presence to be one of the most calming forces she had experienced in her life, and forgot her fears. "Will you show me what you do, Ser Brynden? I've never been in an arms room before."

"Indeed, Princess. Follow me." For the next hour Ser Brynden gave Shireen a tour of the sprawling room, explaining how the various weapons and armament were stored and maintained. He explained how a sword could be sharpened, straightened, and rehabilitated, and showed her broken weapons that were destined to go back to the blacksmith for reforging. Eventually Shireen started to talk to him about what had caused her to run off. He was easy for Shireen to talk to, extra patient and kind to her, listening to all she spoke of, answering all her questions with sincerity.

"Lady Sansa is fortunate to have an uncle such as you, Ser Brynden. You've been so kind to me, so patient. Only our old Maester, Cressen, ever treated me so well." Sadness and loneliness welled up inside Shireen again. Most of her life she had lived so very _alone_.

Brynden Tully cast a knowing look and smile towards the princess, and guided her back to his workbench. "I've been a professional uncle as well as soldier my entire adult life, Princess. When I lived at Riverrun all my brother's children, and fosterlings too, came to me with their problems and questions, failures and achievements. I've had a lifetime of experience. Now, I can tell something weighs heavy on your mind, too. You do not strike me as the type of girl who runs down remote hallways of unfamiliar castles on a whim. What troubles you so?"

"His Grace, my father." The little girl hopped up on the bench next to Ser Brynden, but couldn't look at him. Doubts began to surface in her mind again - should she tell the knight what she said to her father? Will he understand? Will he march her back to her father to face the consequences?

Ser Brynden nodded knowingly. "Ah. Fathers are often troublesome, and their motives generally not understood by their own children. And your father is an especially complicated man."

The words burst out of her chest. "He's horrible! I hate him." Then a fresh round of tears sprang forth, clouding Shireen's vision.

"Hate is a rather strong word, Princess. All of my brother's children came to me, expressing the exact same sentiment about their own father at one time or another, but hate was never the emotion they actually felt. Last night you were so happy to see him, and I can tell you now how relieved Stannis was to be reunited with you. What has he done so horrible in such a short period of time?"

She sniffled. "Devan. What he did to Devan...it's horrible! I heard him tell Lord Davos how he came to hit Devan. How could my father hurt him so badly? And I don't understand why Devan still serves Father so willingly, why you serve him, or how could Lady Sansa possibly feel affection towards him and be willing to marry him? She's so kind and gracious, his complete opposite. My father doesn't love anyone, and he doesn't care about anyone." The words gushed out in a torrent nearly all at once, and Shireen felt both relief at speaking them aloud, and trepidation at what might follow.

"Hmm. I was there, Princess, on that awful day. Yes, he injured Devan, and no one condones or excuses him for doing so. But those of us who have been with the king during his painful recovery understand what occurred, and why. I will ask you to reconsider your harsh judgment of your father. He has suffered terribly since the battle against the Boltons all those months ago. He lost all of his men from the south, every single one. They were starving. Your father is a large man now, but when he arrived here he was a walking skeleton, skin and bones, injured terribly in both the body and the mind. Physical injuries can be seen and dealt with, lost weight regained, but mental injuries are far more difficult to recognize, let alone treat." He paused for a moment to make sure she was listening.

Shireen felt a tightness in her chest and began to cough. Once she was able to breath normally again, she looked up the knight, eyes watering from the effort of coughing. "I don't understand how that happens."

"Tell me, Princess, were you very afraid that night at Castle Black? Do you still think about it?"

Shireen tensed up at the memory of that terrifying, fiery night. She still feared bonfires. "All the time," she whispered. She gathered her arms around her body, shaking slightly. "I dream about it almost every night. Melisandre stood so imposing, so evil. The flames turned the night sky red. All the men, even my mother and Ser Axell too, stood in a trance chanting...I couldn't get away..."

Ser Brynden's face took on a faraway expression, as if he too saw something not in the room. "Stannis...he still experiences the horrors of that battle, and other horrors too, in his mind. Just like you do when you're reminded of that night at Castle Black. Many soldiers deal with it, but their experiences are all unique, and few suffer as badly as your father has."

Shireen sniffled, but kept her emotions in check. "I heard him say to Davos that he was drunk and angry. Angry I understand, he is always angry, but drunk? I've never seen my father drink alcohol; he purposely avoided it. He always railed about Uncle Robert's heavy drinking, how irresponsible it was, degrading and pathetic. I find it hard to believe - did he lie to Davos, to give himself an excuse for hurting Devan so badly?" Shireen hugged her knees close to her chest, seeking some sort of comfort.

"No, Princess, your father did not lie. He started drinking heavily in a desperate attempt to alleviate his suffering."

She gasped, then grew thoughtful. "I never thought of him being hurt before. Father has always been so strong, so fierce, so cold. I didn't think he felt anything at all."

Brynden sighed. "All men feel and experience emotion, Princess. Even your father. I cannot betray his confidence, but I assure you he feels extreme sorrow at what he did to Devan. And even when he was drunk, he never intended to hit the boy. He owned up to his actions, took responsibility, and most importantly, sought the help he so desperately needed. I think you need to go talk to him, hear him out. Share your experiences with him too. Perhaps even speak with Devan. He is the one who was injured, but freely chooses to serve and remain by the king's side."

Shireen shook her head. "Father won't want to see me now, or ever again I don't imagine. I yelled something terrible at him, mean and hurtful. I said I hated him, and that I wished he wasn't my father. I spoke without thinking or understanding the situation, and I can't take it back. Father doesn't forgive or forget anything. Ever." She hung her head in shame, unwillingly to meet the knight's sympathetic gaze.

"You might be surprised, Princess, at how much your father has changed in that regard. You are his daughter. Give him, and yourself too, a chance. Come now, let us go back. The evening meal will be served soon, and I imagine some people may be searching for you." She nodded in agreement. Shireen realized that she didn't really know her father at all, and that he was not the same man she remembered from Dragonstone. She wished she could start over with him.

Brynden guided a somber Shireen back to the stairwell and they slowly climbed the stairs. She had to pause as a hard coughing fit took her breath away. By the time they reached the great hall she was truly winded.

There was a fair bit of activity and commotion occurring in the great hall when they arrived. Shireen spotted her great-uncle Ser Lomas talking urgently with Lady Sansa and a few of Winterfell's guardsmen, and Lord Davos also approaching Sansa from a different direction. The king's presence was noticeably absent.

After she expressed her apologies to Ser Lomas for running away earlier, Shireen went with Sansa to get settled in her new chamber. She noticed that Lord Davos had appropriated Ser Brynden almost immediately, and the two appeared to be involved in a serious discussion as they left the great hall. Shireen found climbing the stairs to be a nearly insurmountable challenge, as she had to stop for coughing fits twice before they reached the second floor. Her lungs felt like they were full of thick goo, making breathing difficult. All thoughts of Devan and her father faded away, as she could only concentrate on breathing. _In, out, in, out._

Sansa reached her hand out to feel Shireen's forehead and face, a worried expression crossing her own face. "Princess, how long have you been coughing like this? I think you have a fever. Let's get you settled in your room and I will send for a healer."

Shireen practically collapsed on the soft bed, and wanted to do nothing more than sleep. A nagging question concerning her father lurked in the back of her mind, something she had wanted to ask Sansa, but she drifted off before being able to form the words.

********************************************************

Once the girls arrived at Shireen's room Sansa sent for a healer, the king and Ser Lomas. Although Ser Axell was also Shireen's blood relative, his mere presence exhausted even the healthiest of individuals. Better for the princess that he stay away. Healer Storgand and a skilled nursemaid showed up almost immediately, and Ser Lomas soon after. King Stannis' whereabouts were unknown, but Sansa could not leave Shireen to search for him herself.

A few hours later the healer gestured to Sansa and Ser Lomas to step out of the room with him. Shireen's coughing and fever had worsened considerably in that time. "My Lady, Ser Lomas, Princess Shireen has caught the Seal Cough, a very bad case I fear. The younger Seaworth boys have it, as does your younger brother, Rickon. The three boys all started coughing earlier today, but none of them are nearly as ill as the princess."

"Rickon? Why wasn't I informed that my little brother was ill?" Sansa inquired rather sharply, genuinely irritated that such important information had not been relayed to her.

"Forgive me, Lady Sansa. Lord Snow asked me not to disturb you yet, as he knew you were tending to the princess. He also stated that neither direwolf was concerned with Rickon's cough, although I don't understand why he would say something so odd." Sansa felt herself relax at the last bit of information. If Shaggydog and Ghost didn't worry about Rickon's health, then neither would she.

"I trust my brothers' wolves, Healer Storgand. They sense far more than we can. What about Arya? If these four all caught this cough, shouldn't Arya be sick too? All five have been together for several weeks now."

"Neither you, Lady Arya or Lord Snow are in danger, My Lady. Lord Snow remembers that you three caught this illness when he was a boy of 7 or 8. Once you've been sick with Seal Cough once, you cannot get it again. That is why it is mainly a childhood illness."

Sansa was tremendously relieved to hear that information. She and Jon had too many duties and responsibilities to be sidelined at this juncture, and knowing that Arya would not catch the cough either meant that she could assist Sansa as well.

A barking, gurgling cough sounded from inside the bedroom. "Why is Shireen so ill? And how do we treat her?"

"My Lady, I don't know why her illness is so much more severe than the boys'. Perhaps it is due to the grayscale that afflicted her as a baby, but that is only conjecture. Honestly, the princess is the only person known to have survived grayscale, so there is much that we do not know about its after-effects." He sighed, clearly at a loss for answers.

The healer's face remained neutral, but Sansa could see that he was truly worried. "The nursemaid attending Shireen is very skilled, and knows how to treat this illness. Her treatment is the same as for anyone else with a fever and congestive cough. Medicines for the fever, hot mustard packs on her chest and breathing in steam with mint oil. The last two will help loosen the mucus in her lungs. She will also need to drink a lot of water. But I warn you, she will tire out from the coughing, and that is when her life will be in danger. I will not hide the truth - the princess is already very ill, and will only get worse."

The healer excused himself as he had other patients within Winterfell to treat, but the nursemaid remained with Shireen. Storgand stressed how vital it was that Shireen never be left alone - her illness could take a turn for the worse in a very short amount of time.

Sansa turned to Ser Lomas. As the king's uncle, she thought that perhaps he might know where to find Stannis, but he shook his head gravely. "Lady Sansa, I doubt if His Grace is interested in anyone's company at this moment. I was escorting Shireen through the yard when we both overheard the king tell Lord Davos what had happened to Devan Seaworth. Shireen grew quite upset, yelled some very hateful words at her father, and ran away. Davos, too, turned his back on Stannis and walked away, before the king was able to complete his story. To say that my nephew closed himself off would be an understatement."

Sansa felt sick with worry. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, concentrating. For the first time she consciously tried to feel out Stannis' emotions. Always before whenever he felt something strong or conflicted they came to her unbidden, but she had never sought to deliberately know them - she felt that would violate his trust. Right now, though, she could not sense anything but a large cold void. And that bothered her more than even his past pain.

Worried and exasperated, Sansa became more determined than before. "Regardless, Ser Lomas, she's just a little girl, a child. More importantly, Shireen is his daughter, his very sick daughter. He needs to be made aware of that fact, and I'm going to find him."

Ser Lomas gave Sansa word of warning. "My Lady, please be warned that even if you do locate Stannis, you may not receive a warm welcome. Assuming he acknowledges your presence at all."

An hour later Sansa gave up searching, admitting to herself that Stannis simply did not want to be located. _He will show up in his own time and in his own way._ She visited the Seaworths briefly, and ascertained that the younger boys indeed only suffered from a mild case of the cough and were in good hands with their mother. Sansa opted not to bring up the subject of the king with Marya and Davos, and kept the conversation with them limited to the children's illness. Both expressed surpise and sadness when Sansa told them how sick Princess Shireen was. Marya and Devan declared that they would sit with her the next day, to give her company and support.

Rickon, too, only suffered mildly from the cough, and was still awake and complaining about being stuck in bed. Osha had Rickon under control, and had learned how to treat his cough from the healer. Leaving Rickon to rest, Sansa sought out Jon, finding him deep in conversation with Ser Brynden in their den. No one else was about.

"Jon, Uncle Brynden, have either of you seen the king? He's been missing for hours, and I think he should be made aware of how ill Shireen is."

Brynden appeared most concerned by the news, but did not have encouraging words for Sansa. "Shireen visited me today, Sansa, down in the old arms room. She had run away from her father, having discovered what he did to Devan. I spent a fair bit of time with her, and maybe gave her enough advice to rethink her opinion of Stannis. As for finding the king, I suggest you give up your quest now. Let him come to Shireen when he is ready."

Brynden had more information to pass. "I also talked at length with Lord Davos. Davos had calmed down enough to listen to reason and hear me out. He even witnessed one of Stannis' flashbacks earlier today. I think the mere shock of learning what had happened had caused logic to flee in the face of raw emotion, and Davos' first instinct concerning his son's injury was to react with anger. I believe it will take time for him to reconcile with Stannis, but at least now he understands that the king was truly not in his right mind that day, and that he did not know it was Devan when he struck out. Speaking with Devan will probably help Davos decide whether he will continue to serve the king."

Sansa then thought back to Jon's reaction to Stannis much earlier in the day. His reticence concerning her betrothal to the king still bothered her a great deal, but she decided that this was not the proper time to broach the subject with him. They had too much to worry about as it was, with the ceremony and feast scheduled for the very next day, plus the illness affecting Shireen, Rickon and the Seaworth boys. Perhaps once all that was behind them she would confront Jon, but for now she wanted to maintain some sibling harmony.

Sansa bid her kinsmen goodnight, informing them that she would spend part of the night watching over Shireen, so that the nursemaid would have time to rest. Also, she felt some responsibility towards the princess' well-being, as she would technically become Shireen's stepmother once she and Stannis were married. Moreover, Sansa was genuinely fond of the princess and wanted to make sure someone who cared sat with her during the course of the illness.

As she walked down the hallway Sansa paused outside the Lord's chambers, currently in use by King Stannis. Disregarding both his and her own uncle's warnings to let the king be, Sansa knocked on his door. She had tried earlier in the evening, but hadn't received a response. She didn't get one now, either. Determined to inform the king of his daughter's serious illness, Sansa tried the door and found it unlocked. A strange notion, one that she never would have considered before, overtook her sensibilities, and she opened his door and let herself inside.

Sansa found herself in the king's study, the antechamber that preceded the bedchamber. A few coals glowed faintly in the fireplace, providing a faint bit of light. The fine black cloak on which she had embroidered a golden stag hung from a hook on the wall, along with the new fine clothing she'd had the tailors make for him for tomorrow's ceremony. Various parchments were scattered across the king's spacious desk, but other than that nothing seemed out of place. The doorway leading to the bedchamber was open, and light spilled out into the study. Sansa crept quietly to the doorway, and looked inside. A few candles were lit on the hearth's mantle and on a sidetable, and a fire burned low in the fireplace. Sansa made out the king's long legs stretching out from a cushioned chair set near the fireplace, next to a thick pile of furs.

"My King?" No answer. He had not looked up or acknowledged Sansa's entrance, but she knew he was awake, as the flickering light reflected off his dark blue eyes. She tried again, a little louder, but to no avail. To Sansa it appeared that Stannis sat unusually still, as if he was in a trance. Concerned, she stepped closer and touched his shoulder gently, hoping to get his attention. What happened next was too fast to process, it came as a blur.

One moment Sansa's hand was gently touching the king's shoulder, the next moment she was flat on her back on the pile of furs. Her wrists were held in a bone-crushing grip over her head, and a huge, heavy weight lay across her entire body. All the wind had been knocked out of her lungs from the force of the throw to the floor, but she could not take in any air. Gasping, silently wheezing, Sansa realized that all of Stannis' weight was bearing down on her, and he was practically crushing her chest. Struggling against him was futile, he was so heavy, so very strong. Her legs, too, had been pinned by his own muscular legs, and his hipbones pushed painfully against her pelvis. She was completely immobilized and trapped beneath him. Panic set in.

"My King...can't breath...please..." Her voice was faint and very raspy, as she had run out of air. Sansa's vision had started to narrow and go dim. She would pass out if he didn't move off from her soon.

Fortunately for her Stannis shifted his weight enough for Sansa to take a deep breath. She breathed in his scent - clean and musky, and thankfully with no trace of alcohol. She looked up to see that his face was very close to hers, and his expression was cold yet quizzical. Still he did not move or speak. She would have to convince him to let her up.

"My King, please, will you let me up?" She looked Stannis directly in the eye and kept her voice as steady as possible. While no longer in a state of panic, Sansa still did not understand how she came to be in such an unseemly position on the floor, nor could she she discern the king's intentions. And while at any other time she might have welcomed the warm pressure of his groin pressing against her own (the memory of his heated kiss in godswood still very sweet), arousal was the farthest thing from her mind. She really needed to regain her footing and equilibrium.

Stannis let go of her wrists but leaned forward to take his weight on his forearms, effectively trapping Sansa. He bent his head closer to hers and just looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. She, in turn, took the moment to examine his own battle-worn face - noting the increased silver in his beard, the deeper lines stretching out from the corners of his eyes, the ever-present frown lines on his forehead. His eyes showed a wildness in them, not of madness or lust, but primal, almost animalistic in nature. Suddenly the king's nostrils flared, and as quickly as she had been thrown to the floor Sansa found herself yanked back to her feet.

The king stepped well away from Sansa and turned his back to her. His cold voice carried a clear warning. "Never come close to me when I am in a distant state of mind, Wolf-Girl. I might have killed you. Consider yourself warned. Now go." Sansa then realized that his reaction was born from well-honed, instinctive battle reflexes, not from anger or lust. Rattled and close to tears, she refused to give in to fear or raw emotion. Not yet.

Sansa would not depart his company without passing on her information concerning Shireen. "I need to inform you of something first, Your Grace. Princess Shireen is very sick, with a high fever and cough. The healers are gravely concerned for her health." She was proud of how steady her voice sounded, even if her hands shook from raw nerves.

Still the king did not turn around. Stannis' cold harsh voice, devoid of any emotion, chilled Sansa straight to the bone. "Consider me informed. Leave." She did not dare to disobey his order a second time, and fled the room.

Once she was well down the hallway Sansa stopped and leaned against the wall, first making sure she was alone. What on earth had possessed her to enter his chambers without permission? No proper lady would ever do that! She never had done something so rash and foolhardy before. As close of a relationship as she had built with Stannis, much to the surprise of _everybody_ , she still had not entered his quarters without permission, or alone, since his first week at Winterfell, and then only because he had been unconscious and she had been tending his wounds.

Her blind determination to inform Stannis of his daughter's serious illness, well-intentioned as it was, nearly got her killed! Foolish girl! Ser Lomas had been correct - the king had truly closed himself off. Sansa realized then that she still had much to learn about how to relate to and communicate with him, especially during times like these.

Still, Stannis could have easily forced himself upon her without difficulty or reprisal. That he did nothing of the sort calmed Sansa immensely. He proved once again that he would not harm her.

Brushing off her skirts and taking a deep breath, Sansa shook off her fears, straightened her spine and her resolve. She headed for Shireen's chamber, determined to see that the princess recovered. She also told herself that next time she would heed the advice of wise old uncles.


	19. Lord Stark

_The stag stopped suddenly, listening. The barking and howling of the dogs sounded closer than before, so close he could smell their foul stench. He hated dogs, even more than wolves. Dogs brought men. Men brought fear, and death. When they entered the woods all creatures did their best to flee or hide._

_He had been driving his herd deeper into the forest for a few hours now, trying to outrun the dogs and hunters that trailed after them, but his herd grew tired in the deep snow. Many of his does were heavy now, and could not keep up. He snorted and stomped his hooves, then turned back to confront the fast approaching dogs. The hunters had already taken down four does and two young adult bucks. If the king stag provided distraction perhaps the rest of the herd could escape._

_The king stag bellowed out a challenge to the pursuing dogs, then cut across their trail to lead them away from his own herd. He trotted swiftly through the snow, following well-known ancient pathways through the trees and rocks. For another hour the stag led the chase towards the edge of the forest, away from his own kind. Bit by bit the dogs closed the gap, but the humans on their horses had not yet come into view._

_Danger! The stag stopped and turned left. The wind had changed direction, and he smelled humans and dogs close in front of him. He had been cutoff, and now he would have to fight. A snarling dog attacked from behind; the stag whirled to parry the attack with his huge rack. Still the canine managed to bite the stag's front leg once before he swept it against a tree with his antlers. The crack of a snapping spine echoed through the woody glen, even as another dog attacked the stag's rear flank. This time the stag managed to kick the dog away before it reached his side. With an audible yelp the dog fell into the snow and stopped moving._

_More dogs could be heard baying; they would be upon the stag shortly. He turned to run, but came up short as he saw a hunter make an unusual movement from atop a horse. A strange snap and whirring sound followed the sharp pain that emanated from the stag's right rear leg. Staggering, he managed to stay upright. Understanding that his time was nearing an end, the stag lowered his rack and charged at the hunter and his horse. He rammed the horse, knocking it off balance, then escaped up through the draw. At the ridgeline the stag turned to listen and observe the scene below him. The men and dogs milled around the downed horse, but did not follow his path. He fled down the backside of the ridge, leg on fire from pain, instinctively heading towards the tree with the strange face. He had one last battle to fight._

A sharp rap at the door caused Stannis to jerk and rise up quickly from his chair. Still partially linked with the stag, he groaned in agony as pain shot up his right leg. Confused, he shook his head to clear it and fully sever his connection from the stag. Breathing in slowly and deeply he concentrated on standing steadily. After a moment he realized that most of the pain had not been his own, but the stag's. Finally cognizant of his surroundings, Stannis called for whomever had knocked on the door to enter.

Servants entered the king's chambers pushing a huge copper bathing tub before them. This evening Stannis would legitimate Jon Snow and designate him Lord Stark, Warden of the North. Even though he detested such pompous affairs he would play his part in the great hall. Once a servant had trimmed his hair and beard and shaved his neck, Stannis dismissed them all. He preferred to bathe in solitude as he disliked having strangers touch him. He had despised the utter helplessness he had experienced during those first weeks following his injury, when he'd been too weak to even hold a cup, let alone wash himself.

While he soaked in the hot water Stannis thought on the previous night, when Sansa had entered his chambers without his bidding. He had been linked with the stag then as well - her sudden presence at his side had triggered a reaction born both of his soldiering instincts and those of the stag. He could have unwittingly killed her, his own intended mate. Once he had come back to himself Stannis had quickly turned away from Sansa, unwilling for her to see or sense his own self-loathing. He could not bear to think on what he might have done to her.

He had slept hardly at all, furious with himself over his rough treatment of Sansa, unsure of his status with Davos, and worried for his daughter's health. It was that concern that finally broke through his self-imposed isolation.

Memories of Shireen's weeks-long fight with grayscale flooded him. Her tiny body had been racked by pain and fever, and he had felt helpless to aid her, and feared that he would lose his baby girl. No servant was willing to tend to the afflicted baby, even under threat from their Lord, and Selyse had not yet completely recovered from childbirth. Stannis alone had touched Shireen, tended to her, fed her, and delivered the treatments prescribed by the maesters and healers. When nothing else could soothe the distraught baby, he had carried her against his chest, completely disregarding the possibility of contracting grayscale himself. Even Cressen at one point encouraged him to ship her away, but some instinct had driven him to stay by her side and not give up. That instinct drove him to her bedside this past night.

In the early morning hours he had stolen into Shireen's room and sat by her side while she slept fitfully, coughing all the while. The nursemaid had spoken to him but he tuned her out, as he focused all his attention on his sick daughter. The cloying, fetid odor of illness permeated the air, overwhelming his heightened sense of smell. During a particularly harsh coughing spell Stannis had tentatively reached his hand out, and after hesitating, gently started to rub Shireen's back. He froze when she muttered "Papa", but continued the gentle circles once she relaxed under his hand.

Stannis sat with Shireen for a few hours, never once breaking physical contact. He noticed that she breathed easier and coughed less while he rubbed her back. But when she showed signs of waking he had quickly and quietly left the room before she could become aware of his presence. After the previous day's outburst in the training yard he _knew_ that she didn't want anything to do with him, yet he still had needed to check on her himself. She was his only child and heir. She had not survived grayscale, isolation, war or the evils of the Red God only to be struck down by a common childhood ailment. He would not allow it.

Another knock at the door brought Stannis back to the present. Devan entered, carrying something circular and golden in his hands. It was time.

*****************

To Sansa the ceremony naming Jon a Stark and Lord of Winterfell passed by in a whir of emotion and images that seemed both too fast and too slow to process fully. The great hall was filled to capacity and brightly lit by hundreds of candles and lanterns.

She and her siblings had all dressed in the Stark colors of white and gray, with their direwolf sigil embroidered on their cloaks. Jon wore a gray wolf skin draped over his shoulders and had Longclaw strapped to his waist. Ghost kept pace at his side. Jon looked like a true wolf-lord of old, somber and serious in his bearing, with a giant direwolf keeping him company.

Jon led the Stark siblings up the center aisle where King Stannis awaited them at the head of the great hall. Sansa walked to Jon's left, Rickon and Arya one step behind. Even Shaggydog accompanied their measured procession towards the king, padding silently by Rickon's side.

Sansa gasped when she finally got a good look at the king. He stood tall and imposing on the dais, projecting his command and authority. The king's tailored clothing was all black, yet finely made. His doublet held subtle black stitching, and in a nod to his house colors, golden antlers embroidered just around the cuffs. His black leather boots, sword belt and leg brace had been polished to a bright shine. Winterfell had lacked enough golden or yellow cloth, so Sansa herself had embroidered a golden stag onto a fine black cloak.

The only other color the king bore came from the heavy gold torc he wore around his neck. One of the Wildlings was an accomplished gold and silversmith; he had worked gold wire in such a way around a black core to create the effect of antlers twisting their way around the torc. To Sansa the torc conveyed his position every bit as clearly as a crown would have, and looked even more regal.

Stannis' face bore no emotion; he could have been made from stone he stood so still. Yet when Jon stepped forward, knelt before the king and laid his sword on the flagstones between them Sansa detected a ripple of satisfaction emanate from Stannis. Sansa, Arya and Rickon all followed Jon's example, and dropped to one knee in homage to the king.

Sansa could not recall Jon's pledge of loyalty to Stannis, or the king's words to Jon, but she could tell Jon was well-pleased when he stood up, even though his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Jon immediately named Rickon his heir, and the youngest Stark, still coughing slightly, also bent his knee to Stannis.

Sansa was so proud of her little brother. He had at first resisted behaving in a civilized fashion, but finally she had convinced him to bathe and dress in a manner befitting the heir to Winterfell, in order to honor their wolf-lord brother and ancestors. As long as she could make Rickon believe that a direwolf would behave, then he would too. Ghost at least provided the wild red-maned boy with a worthy example of model behavior.

Sansa and Arya were the first to pledge their fealty to Jon as their Lord, then they stepped to one side of him as all the present noblemen and bannermen of the north stepped forward to give Jon their pledges, and to bend the knee to Stannis. Lord Manderly was the first to do so. His great frame shook as he bent to his knee before Stannis and loudly declared his full support and fealty to the Baratheon king. Sansa could sense Stannis' satisfaction at finally receiving Wyman Manderly's public display of loyalty. All the other bannermen followed suit.

Stannis then nodded to Jon as he eyed Sansa. Sansa realized what would come next - the formal announcement of her betrothal to the king. Sansa had undergone an embarrassing examination by both a healer, a midwife and a maester earlier in the day to confirm that her maidenhead was indeed intact.

Jon stepped forth. "All of you present are aware that my sister, Lady Sansa, was forced underage into a marriage to Tyrion Lannister. This was done against her will, as a hostage to the Lannisters and without permission of her rightful Lord, our brother Robb. Sansa has testified that Lord Tyrion did not consummate the union. Maester Brenner, Healer Storgand and a midwife have all examined my sister and confirmed that she remains a maiden. That marriage was not valid, and in fact is now void. Does anyone present dispute this?"

A few mutterings could be heard, but no one dared challenge Jon.

"Good. All of the North supports our king, Stannis Baratheon, as rightful claimant to the Iron Throne. You all know that marriage solidifies support and loyalty between families and regions. As Lord of Winterfell, my first act is to officially announce the betrothal of my sister, Lady Sansa, to King Stannis."

Most of the hall erupted in cheers as Sansa stepped forward, with some trepidation, to stand before the king. He looked down at her quizzically, but did not speak. She felt so nervous, even though this was just a handfasting promise, and not their marriage itself. She heard someone mention faith of the Seven, and someone else said something about her being too young. That caused her to notice how Stannis frowned and scowled. She detected a ripple of guilt, quickly hidden, that flashed through him.

Sansa sat to the king's left during the meal, while Jon occupied the position of honor to Stannis' right. Throughout the feast numerous bannermen approached Jon to discuss various aspects of their keeps and lands. Jon had met many of them as a boy, but his relationship as their Lord would now be completely different. Sansa thought he stepped into his role as Lord of Winterfell easily, probably due to his time spent as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

Sansa sat comfortably next to Stannis, but did not attempt to make small talk with him. She knew he detested meaningless conversations and would prefer solitude to the bustling activity of the feast. Sansa did not mind, as she had become accustomed to his silent presence over the past many months. Instead she focused her efforts on greeting the bannermen when they approached the high table. She recalled how her mother had taken on the role of hostess whenever Winterfell had housed guests in the past, and she tried to emulate that example. Strangely this caused the bannermen to grow more comfortable in the immediate presence of the king and Jon. This role warmed them up so that when it came time for them to speak to either man, the conversations flowed far more smoothly than they might other have.

Towards the end of the feast some late arriving hunters excitedly entered the great hall and approached the high table.

"Lord Stark! We had a successful hunt, and bring forth news from the forest as well." Sansa noticed how Jon sat up straight upon being addressed as Lord Stark. He nodded and gestured for the man to continue.

"M'Lord, we took four does and two young stags today, but we also lost a horse. Finn's horse was charged by a large stag right after he shot it with an arrow. The horse fell and broke its leg, so we had to put it down. The big stag got away, I'm 'fraid to say."

Jon congratulated the hunters. Sansa noticed that the king was staring intently at the hunter who had apparently shot the stag. She sensed his anticipation, and some other dark current, but could not quite identify its meaning. Stannis spoke for the first time since he had named Jon 'Lord Stark.'

"Describe the animal and its injury to me." His harsh, commanding voice left no room for doubt.

"Y...Your Grace, I shot the stag in the rear leg, but it got away. It's the largest stag we've ever seen. Huge antler rack. He was leadin' the herd away from our dogs. Jordy says he's the king stag himself." The hunter looked back to Jon. "M'Lord, I'd like to lead a group tomorrow to pick up his trail." Jon nodded and congratulated Finn again, but did not get to speak any further.

Sansa jumped as the harsh, primal bellow of the king silenced the great hall. He rose abruptly to his feet, knocking his chair down in the process. He stood behind the center of the high table with his knife drawn and teeth bared in a snarl. The savage instinct clearly manifested itself in his fierce, wild visage and aggressive stance.

"The stag is mine and mine alone." Stannis' harsh voice and intense, challenging gaze brooked no argument. Normally the hunter who spotted or injured a prized game animal had earned the right to try for it first, but on this night no one contradicted the king. "We leave at first light."

Jon tried to dissuade the king. "Your Grace, we will need to send out trackers first. We don't even know where the stag is, let alone where he might be tomorrow. I..." Stannis cut Jon off with a sharp gesture.

"No, Wolf-Lord, trackers will not be necessary. I know where to find the stag."

As if he could sense dissension and disbelief emanating from some of the men, Stannis gave the Hall another sweeping glare.

"The king stag is _mine_. Let no one forget." Stannis' voice grew harsher and deeper. He punctuated his words with a sudden strike, leaving his knife buried two inches deep into the oaken table. Once again he swept the Hall with his fearsome gaze.

"His heart is mine. His blood is mine."

The king's ferocious words captured the attention of all the Wildlings and northmen. His next words, uttered in a voice so raw, powerful and savage as to be nearly unrecognizable to Sansa, were delivered to an absolutely silent, rapt audience.

"His shadow is mine."

"His soul is mine."


	20. Revelation

The next morning dawned sunny and calm, for which Sansa was thankful. Wildlings, soldiers and horses all milled about the outer courtyard, getting ready to depart. The horses stomped and nickered, anxious to get moving. Their breath blew great clouds of steam into the crisp air and caused frost to collect on whiskers and bridles. Anticipation for the hunt crackled throughout all of Winterfell.

As Sansa approached her brother, the newly minted Lord Stark, Ghost loped across the trampled snow-covered ground to greet her. She lifted her gloved hand to scratch the giant direwolf behind his ears as he stretched up to lick her face.

"Jon, do be careful out on this hunt." Sansa feared for the safety of her brother, her king, and all the men who would be accompanying them into the woods.

Jon gave Sansa a smile and a quick, awkward hug. "Don't worry Sansa, we'll be fine. We have enough men to ward off any possible attack, but most of the Bolton loyalists died in the battle all those months ago. I worry more about you. I should leave Ghost here with you." His gray eyes flashed with concern, as Winterfell still hosted many strangers.

"No!" A sudden premonition coursed through Sansa. "No, Ghost has to go with you and the king today, Jon. He must! Besides, we have Shaggydog here - no one would dare challenge him." 

Sansa could not explain why Ghost needed to go with Jon and King Stannis, she only knew deep in her heart that he must accompany the men.

A gravelly voice sounded from behind Sansa. "And I shall remain here as well, Lord Stark. Sansa, Arya and Rickon will all be well protected." 

Ser Brynden stepped up next to Sansa to observe the seeming chaos coalesce into order within the courtyard.

Jon nodded to Ser Brynden in thanks. "Then we only await Stannis."

Sansa did not need to turn around to know that Stannis had entered the courtyard. She felt him. 

"He's coming now."

Stannis crossed the courtyard to them with long, quick strides, his gait betraying only a trace of a limp. Although his deep-set eyes lingered on Sansa for several long moments, he did not speak, but only gazed at her with his nearly unreadable frown.

Beneath that stoic exterior, however, Sansa could sense the king's internal conflict. His scarred, battle-worn face exhibited no emotion, but his dark blue eyes spoke volumes. She realized then that Stannis had no desire to go on this hunt, but he felt compelled to do so by some unnamed force.

She spoke the traditional words of good fortune to the hunters, and stepped back as the king and her brother mounted their horses. Stannis silently nodded to Sansa, then guided his destrier next to Jon as Ghost led the column through Winterfell's northern gate. Twenty men mounted on shaggy garrons followed them through the snow, and soon the courtyard was empty again.

Sansa immediately returned to Shireen's room once the last riders had cleared the gate. She was not surprised to find Lord Davos, Devan and Ser Lomas in attendance, along with the healer. Shireen's cough and fever had taken a turn for the worse overnight. The princess coughed weakly, but otherwise appeared unconscious. One look at the occupants' faces told Sansa everything she did not want to know. Shireen was dying.

Anguished, Sansa sat down on the edge of the bed and felt the girl's forehead. Shireen's skin felt very hot and dry. The fever burned throughout her body, and had weakened her considerably.

"Healer Storgand, what can we do?"

The healer answered stoically. He had watched many patients die before. "Stay by her side, try to get liquid in her, and talk to her - I believe even unconscious patients can hear our voices. Perhaps that can bring her some small comfort."

Lord Davos made a disgusted sounding scoff. "Her father should be here, not gallivanting about in the woods on some meaningless hunt. Stannis never cared for hunting before, yet he abandons Shireen now for just that. I don't understand it."

Looking up, Sansa could tell that Ser Lomas shared Davos' sentiments. He too spoke angrily. "I have stopped trying to make excuses for my nephew. He has closed his heart to her and everyone else."

Sansa knew that Stannis felt deep sorrow and concern for his daughter's failing health. She shook her head and addressed both men sharply. "With all due respect Lord Davos, Ser Lomas, you are both wrong. King Stannis would rather remain within Winterfell. He spent some time last night here while Shireen slept, and according to the nursemaid, several hours the previous night as well."

Sansa ignored the men after that exchange and focused all of her attention on Shireen for the remainder of the day. She and the healer managed to get Shireen to swallow enough liquid to keep her from becoming completely dehydrated, and the girl's condition remained stable. Sansa fervently prayed to the Old Gods for a miracle, so that the princess would somehow survive, at least until her father returned.

**********

Jon rode next to the king out of Winterfell's north gate. He still had no idea what Stannis' intended destination was.

"Your Grace, where do you want us to go?"

The king's uncanny gaze swept over Jon, then returned to observe the snow covered land and horizon. "The weirwood tree in the forest, near a rocky slope."

Jon frowned. He recalled his father bringing him and Robb to that location only once, many years ago. He had no idea how to get there himself, and couldn't fathom how the king knew of it. He called the hunter, Finn, up to his side.

"Finn, can you guide us to the weirwood tree in the forest?"

"Yes, M'Lord. That's not far from where that stag rammed m'horse. It's only about two hours from here."

Jon wanted to ask Stannis how he knew of the tree, but refrained once he studied the king's stony profile. He reflected on how Stannis' behavior had changed over the last several months, and compared it to his initial meetings with the king at Castle Black over two years ago. Several important changes stood out.

Never a congenial person to be around, Stannis nonetheless turned into a much calmer man whenever he spent time with Sansa. Jon thought that his sister's influence on the king must truly be powerful to affect such a positive change. Sansa, a girl who Jon remembered loving all things courtly, pretty and proper, now preferred the rough-hewn king's company to anyone else's. He knew that his sister loved Stannis, and Jon had made his peace with that. But it was the king's other major behavioral changes that still bothered Jon.

First, one marked change to the king’s behavior were his wild reactions and frequent loss of temper. Many of Stannis’ actions taken lately at Winterfell appeared to be primal in nature, driven out of emotion and perhaps even originating from some deeper, feral urge. His violent display and threats towards Lord Manderly certainly were not the products of a measured, logical man. And last night during the feast, Jon had felt that Stannis’ had issued his challenge towards the stag itself, not the men present in the hall.

Jon was also worried that Stannis might one day relapse and begin drinking again. He had known men at the Wall who tried to chase away their nightmares with alcohol, much as Stannis had done. Even though the king had remained sober for many weeks, Jon knew that he still suffered from battle sickness, as Ser Brynden had named it. It came on the king much less frequently now, perhaps every few days, but Jon occasionally would witness the king blank out as he fell into a flashback. Jon feared that Sansa may suffer emotionally from the strain of coping with, and helping Stannis cope with his battle sickness.

Stannis’ rather forward actions towards Sansa deeply concerned Jon. He had been seen kissing Sansa more than once, and a guardsman had witnessed a rather heated embrace between the two in the Godswood. Jon had been livid with outrage when he discovered that Stannis had marked her with a bite to the shoulder. Only Sansa’s plea had stayed him from challenging the king then and there. 

Even though they were betrothed, Jon still felt that Stannis had been too free in his physical advances towards his sister. She was still very young, _too young_ , in his opinion, and Jon thought that perhaps she would not have the courage to tell the king no should he attempt to lay with her. Ser Brynden had confided in Jon that he confronted Stannis on his behavior towards Sansa, and received the king’s assurance that he would never pressure or force her. Frustrated, Jon nonetheless had to trust that Stannis would keep his word.

These thoughts and concerns occupied Jon for much of the horseride across the hills and into the woods, so much so that he had only half paid attention to the route. Finn’s thick northern accent cut through his brooding thoughts.

“M’Lord Stark, we’re most of the way there now. Might be better to go where the stag rammed m’horse, and we can track ‘im from there, 'fore this new snow covers his trail.”

The sky had turned overcast during the two hour ride, and small flurries of snow were drifting down through the still, cold air. The horses’ manes had acquired a thin dusting of snow as well. Jon hoped the weather would hold long enough for King Stannis to accomplish his task.

“There is no need. We go directly to the weirwood tree.” Stannis’ harsh declaration left no room for debate.

Jon nodded to Finn, and gestured for him to lead them to the tree. For the next fifteen minutes the only sounds heard were the horses’ muffled steps through the snow and their loud breaths as they huffed in the cold air.

The column of horses and men seemed to stop of its own accord as it entered a large clearing containing a collection of lightly scattered trees and boulders. Jon saw a glimpse of red drift back and forth through some branches, about fifty yards from where he and Stannis had stopped their horses. Nudging his horse forward just a bit, Jon was able to clearly make out the ancient weirwood tree standing alone at the far end of the clearing. 

Turning back to the king, Jon was surprised to see that Stannis had already dismounted from his horse and removed his outer furs and cloak. The tall king was armed with a billhook mounted on a long, sturdy oaken staff. Jon dismounted his horse as well and handed the reins off to one of his men, then took the proffered hunting bow from Finn.

By some odd quirk of weather patterns the clearing itself held only a few inches of snow, not enough to hinder man or horse from walking freely across the ground. Stannis approached Jon, looking more intent than even the previous night. Ghost also nosed his way next to Jon, having popped out of the trees just a moment earlier.

“Your Grace.” Jon tried to hand the bow to Stannis, but the king made a sharp chopping motion with his hand in refusal.

“This is no hunt, Wolf-Lord, but a fight.”

Stannis glanced at Ghost. Once again he caught Jon’s eyes, then looked pointedly to their right. Following the king’s gaze Jon regarded the rocky slope that swept uphill towards a terrace, about two hundred feet away and thirty to forty feet above them. 

Stannis’ low voice caught Jon by surprise. “Remind them that they shall not interfere.” Stannis once again looked towards the slope and tilted his head in that same direction as he caught Jon’s gaze for the last time, then turned and walked decisively towards the weirwood tree.

Jon issued the order to the men to stand back. Conflicted, he wanted to follow or at least observe Stannis, but the king had given him a clear, if unspoken, directive. 

“Ghost, with me.” 

Together Jon and Ghost approached the rocky slope. Ghost left Jon behind as the direwolf was able to climb the steep face at a much faster pace. Jon stopped slightly more than halfway up the hillside to catch his breath and look down at the tableau spread out below him. 

The men and horses had clustered at one end of the clearing, pacing and stomping in the snow. The tall form of King Stannis stood beneath the weirwood tree, partially obscured by the tree’s blood-red leaves. Everything seemed unnaturally still and quiet; he could not hear any of the sounds that he normally associated with the forest. No wind blew through the trees, no birds sang, no squirrels chattered in the branches.

Suddenly Jon couldn’t see - everything went dark. Strong smells assaulted him - death, rotting flesh, and - _pack_? Excitement coursed through him, as even though he could not see, he could smell and hear. A whimpering, a shuffling, and the strong smell of wolf - _pack_ \- filled his nose. Fur filled his mouth as he closed it gently around the little wriggling, whining body. _Pack_.

Jon gasped as he came back to his own body. Momentarily forgetting Stannis, he scrambled up the remainder of the slope to the rock covered terrace. Ghost had found something important, something _alive_.

He picked and darted his way between the rocks and boulders towards the far side of the terrace, instinctively heading towards a small cave dug into the hillside. Jon stopped though, when movement from the opening caught his attention. A moment later Ghost wriggled his huge body through the impossibly tight opening, his mouth full of something furry and reddish-brown. Clambering to his feet, the large direwolf trotted over to Jon.

Jon hadn’t realized he’d fallen to his knees in the snow until Ghost dropped a fuzzy package into his lap. It immediately starting whining and whimpering, shivering somewhat as it tried to burrow into his furs. Jon picked up what he had discerned to be a direwolf pup and gave it a good look, eye to eye. He smiled.

“Hello, small one. Lucky Ghost found you. Ah! You’re a girl. I know who you belong to.”

Jon tucked the pup under his furs with just her head sticking out so that she could warm up. He couldn’t believe how fortuitous this trip had turned out to be.

“Good job, Ghost. Sansa will be happy to greet this little pup.” Jon knew without any doubt that this pup was destined for his sister, even though she had lost Lady years earlier. 

He sat for a few minutes thinking about the Stark family and their connection to the direwolves. Would Sansa learn to connect with this pup like he had learned to connect with Ghost? He wondered about how Ghost had stumbled across _this_ pup, at this particular point in time. Then he remembered how he came to be up on the terrace in the first place. _Stannis. How did he know?_

Jon surged to his feet suddenly, recalling the king’s mission. “Stannis!” He rushed to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the weirwood tree. The once pristine white ground under the tree was now covered in both bright and dark red blood, scattered all over the snow. He could hear nothing.

Jon felt his heart practically beating its way out his chest as he made a hasty and reckless descent back down the slope, hampered somewhat as one hand held the little wolf pup close to his chest. He stumbled and fell backwards more than once as he lost his balance in the rush to reach the bottom. To their credit his men had remained at this end of the clearing, but they appeared increasingly apprehensive and worried.

As he ran across the clearing Jon finally made out two figures through the steadily falling snow. Footprints and cloven hoofprints had trampled the snow and blood into a lumpy, hard packed mass. 

Jon slowed to a halt under the weirwood tree. Stannis knelt over the body of the king stag some twenty yards ahead of him, on the far side of the tree. Jon was not sure whether he ought to approach the king when an odd, almost sing-song voice sounded from right behind him.

“Lord Stark.”

Whirling about, he came up short as a small child-like creature stood directly before him, Ghost laying at its feet. 

“What? Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you…?” Jon trailed off as he took a closer look. Short and slender, with brown, dappled skin and golden cat eyes, it did not wear furs but was draped in leaves and bark instead. He thought back to Old Nan’s stories, and realized this was in fact one of the fabled Children of the Forest.

“Look to the man you call king, Lord of the Wolves. He and the forest king are now joined as one. It is as it was meant to be. He must guard the land.”

 _Joined as one?_ “I don’t understand.” Jon regarded Stannis, who still knelt motionless by the stag’s body. Then he turned his attention back to the stranger once again.

“Your Stag King had something taken from him by evil means, a piece of his very soul. He needed to join with the stag to become whole again. He is more than a man now, Lord Stark.” 

With that pronouncement the Child of the Forest turned and walked away from Jon, beneath the weirwood tree and out into the falling snow.

“Wait!” Jon chased after, but the Child had disappeared. Not even a track remained in the snow. 

Realizing it would be pointless to give chase, Jon turned and circled around the weirwood tree until he was standing directly opposite Stannis. He had no idea what state of mind the king was in. 

Stannis knelt in the red snow behind the stag’s large body with his head bowed, blood-stained hands on the stag’s neck and magnificent antler rack. His body heaved with exertion as he took in rapid, deep breaths. Jon thought he sounded like the bellows in Winterfell’s forge. Despite the low temperature sweat covered the king’s head and mixed with blood as it dripped off his face.

Jon wanted to give Stannis more time to recover, but the falling snow had other ideas. If they did not mount up soon, the ride back to Winterfell would turn dangerous. He cleared his throat deliberately.

“Your Grace.” No response. 

“Your Grace. Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

“No.” The word sounded tortured, as if it caused the king great effort to speak aloud.

“No.” 

It took all of Jon’s willpower not to stumble back when Stannis raised his head, then slowly came to his feet. The king’s face was stony visaged and splattered with blood, yet at the same time absolutely fierce. 

The two men stared at each other across the stag’s body and twenty feet of space, yet Jon was certain that an ocean and more separated them now. Stannis’ expression looked so familiar, yet at the same time so alien that Jon had a hard time reconciling that this man was indeed his king. And would soon become his good-brother as well. 

If Jon had found it difficult to communicate with the king before, now he had absolutely no clue as how to proceed. Fortunately he was interrupted by the snort of a horse. Finn appeared just before the weirwood tree, leading Jon’s and Stannis’ mounts. 

Jon hoped that the king would hear and understand him. “Sire, we must return to Winterfell. The snow will hamper our journey if we tarry any longer.” He carefully picked his way past the king to Finn, painfully aware of Stannis’ harsh, suspicious glare that followed his every move, and took both animals’ reins from the guide.

Finn spoke up. “That’s a fine animal, M’Lord. Shall I send some men up to bring it back to Winterfell?”

“Aye, Finn, that would be sensible.” Jon couldn’t see leaving the stag’s body in the woods, not when they had so many mouths within Winterfell to feed.

Stannis had other ideas. “No.” He practically spat the word out at Jon. The king’s deep set eyes blazed with fury.

Jon attempted to reason with the king. “Your Grace, there is a great deal of meat on that animal. It’d be a shame to waste it now, with winter upon us.” As Lord of Winterfell his first priority was to see to the welfare of his people.

“No. Leave it be.” Angry at first, Jon then thought about that the Child of the Forest had told him. _Joined as one. Guard the land._ He didn’t understand all the implications of those statements, but he took them seriously. 

With a profound limp, Stannis stalked past Jon to his horse. Jon could only assume the fight with the stag had taken its toll on the king’s crippled leg. Watching Stannis don his furs and cloak, Jon frowned at the fresh red droplets landing in the snow beneath the king’s feet. Stannis had not won the fight without injury.

“Your Grace, you are bleeding!” 

Stannis wearily hauled himself up onto his horse with a grunt, then scowled at Jon as he settled heavily into the saddle. “A scratch, Wolf-Lord. Nothing more.”

Jon mounted awkwardly with one hand, as he had to concentrate on keeping the squirming wolf pup secure with the other. As soon as he had seated himself Stannis rode up next to Jon, and held his hand out towards the pup. 

Recognizing the unspoken command, Jon nonetheless hesitated before handing the wolf pup to Stannis. He and his siblings were the ones carrying wolf blood, not King Stannis. Yet as soon as the king took the pup she stopped wriggling except to wag her tail. Stannis viewed her briefly with a thoughtful expression on his face, then tucked her into his own furs and guided his horse forward, towards Winterfell.

Horns heralded their return to Winterfell later that same afternoon. The falling snow had picked up, and had caused the party to take nearly an hour longer to get back to the castle. Despite the snowfall Sansa and Ser Brynden were among those waiting for them in the courtyard.

Jon surreptitiously observed Stannis dismount from his horse, as he knew the king disliked being watched. The king’s crippled leg nearly buckled beneath him as he hit the ground; only a strong grip on the saddle leathers enabled Stannis to remain upright. Jon was worried - he did not know if Stannis’ leg had taken further damage during the fight with the stag, or if he was simply unused to so much riding on horseback. 

Jon was already standing next to his sister when Stannis tramped through the snow to them with a halting, uneven step. Before she could speak Stannis pulled out the small wolf pup from his furs and silently handed it to Sansa. Jon wished he’d had some means to capture his sister’s reaction upon receiving and meeting the pup. Her face lit up with absolute joy and she exclaimed “Oh!” as the pup wagged its tail and reached up to vigorously lick Sansa’s chin and face. 

Sansa almost seemed to lose herself in the company of the pup, momentarily forgetting that she was surrounded by nearly a dozen people, including the king himself. Jon laughed quietly as her face changed to embarrassment as she tried to curtsy, thank Stannis and keep the pup from jumping out her arms all at the same time. But when she looked up to meet Stannis’ eyes, her whole expression changed to wonder and surprise.

“The king stag...” Sansa whispered with amazement.

Sansa, attention focused solely on her king, reached out to run her fingers along the edge of his bearded jaw. In return Stannis snorted softly, briefly closed his eyes and nuzzled her hand. Jon was convinced that they had forgotten they weren’t alone in that brief instance. But observing that intimate moment between his sister and his king did much to allay the fears he had been harboring.

They both watched as Stannis straightened up and slowly limped inside, supported on one side by the very observant Brynden Tully. 

The two siblings turned back to each other and hugged. Sansa laughed once again in joy.

“I’m so glad you found her, Jon! She couldn’t stay in that cave forever. This is literally a dream come true! Now I have to name her.” 

“You can thank King Stannis, Sansa. I don’t know how he knew about her, but he did.” 

They turned to get in out of the cold and snow. Jon frowned at the bright red spots that marked the snow where Stannis had walked. He thought that perhaps the king had been injured worse than he had let on, and intended to send the healers and maester directly to Stannis.

Entering the great hall, Jon recalled what Sansa had whispered when she looked at the king.

“But maybe you can tell me, Sansa. How did _you_ recognize the king stag within Stannis? And how did you know I found her in a cave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up splitting this chapter into two parts, as it became really long and had multiple jumps between points of view. So here is the first part. The next chapter will show the fight from Stannis' POV. The good news is that it should only be a few days before I next update. Sorry for the long wait!
> 
> MEGA big thanks to TommyGinger for being my muse, beta reader and giving me encouragement as I write!


	21. Shadow of a Man, Soul of a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this story! Just took a long hiatus. 
> 
> This chapter tells the fight between Stannis and the stag from Stannis' POV.

Stannis approached the weirwood tree with a deliberate stride, sniffing the air as he crossed the clearing. His rival was close at hand, just beyond the tree. His understanding of the connection between himself and the stag had solidified last night during the feast. For months he had thought perhaps he was a warg like the Starks, due to his dreams and connections with the stag. But last night, upon hearing that the stag was near Winterfell and injured, the overwhelming urge to issue a challenge could not be ignored.

There could be only one king stag.

Stannis halted his steps underneath the tree, paying particular attention to the sprawling roots. Beyond the tree stood a great stag, huge antler rack sweeping up and back from his skull. The animal stood nearly six feet at the shoulder, with a shaggy mane emphasizing his thick neck. His antlers were devoid of velvet, and the bare tips looked as sharp as any knife. The stag’s rear leg was covered with a dark crust of blood. That did not prevent him from stomping his front hooves in warning when Stannis came into view.

Stannis struggled to keep his own conscious self separate from the stag’s, but he could still sense the beast’s aggression as surely as his own. The unseen pull to join with the stag nearly overwhelmed him. He felt the animal’s injury throb in time to his own crippled leg, and fought the impulse to stomp his own foot. But it was the stag’s bellow that brought him mostly back to himself.

Stannis felt the animal’s decision as much as saw it. He took a defensive posture and held his billhook at the ready. Only one of them would walk away.

The stag lowered its antlers and charged full speed towards Stannis.

He stood his ground as long as possible, even as the ground shook with the creature’s pounding onslaught, and only leaped to side when the stag nearly gored him. Even then, the animal managed to strike a glancing swipe and knocked Stannis off his feet.

The stag turned with remarkable agility and began a second charge while Stannis was still on his knees. Somehow he had kept hold of his weapon, and swung while diving for the ground. The shuddering impact jolted Stannis’ shoulders and flung the billhook from his hands. Bright red blood splashed across the snow. He had struck a solid, injurious blow to the king stag.

As Stannis struggled to regain his footing his point of view changed without warning. Suddenly he could see his own self, slipping and scrambling to get to his feet. Contempt for the puny man-body flowed through him. Although the newest injury resonated with pain he also felt a surge of energy, and charged again. Only once again at the last moment did Stannis pull himself free of the stag’s consciousness and regain control of his own flailing body. He was nearly too late.

The stag swung its antlers and swept Stannis off his feet. He caught glimpses of upside-down antlers and snow-covered fur, blurs of white bark and red leaves. When he collided with the frozen ground it was to land flat on his back. All the air escaped his body with a whoosh and his vision momentarily went dark. Stannis panted in an effort to refill his empty burning lungs, wheezing and coughing in the cold air. He stiffly rolled to his belly, shaking his head with annoyance to clear the snow from his face and eyes. He instinctively focused on his opponent.

For its part, the stag also stood trembling with head hanging low and front legs splayed wide apart, breaths coming in uneven gasps. Great clouds of steam billowed from the its muzzle. Crimson blood streamed from the newly inflicted injury on the stag’s flank and the reopened arrow wound on its rear leg.

Stannis groaned as he came to his knees, and clasped an arm tightly to his burning side. His hand slipped through a gap in his clothing - when he pulled it away it was covered in blood. The sharp antlers had not missed after all. Feeling carefully, Stannis confirmed that the gash was relatively shallow, and had not cut completely through the muscle. Still, blood dripped with splashes onto the snow beneath his knees.

A roar from the stag pushed Stannis to action. He grabbed the billhook and used it as a staff to pull himself upright. The animal pawed the snow, bellowed and charged once more. Stannis stood his ground. This would be their last clash, and only one of them would come through it.

At the last possible moment, while looking into the stag’s deep brown eyes, Stannis’ perception changed once more. Wild rage and helpless fury flowed through him. The snow shifted beneath his hooves. Legs and flank burned with overwhelming pain. As they merged, Stannis suddenly saw himself and the stag from each viewpoint, a duality of vision. Instinctively knowing and deciding from which direction the stag would attack, he stepped to the right and swung hard. The stag went down.

 

_The king stag heaved with exhaustion. Sprawled out in the snow, it felt its lifeforce slowly seep out of its body. His challenge had been met and countered, and the man-stag had prevailed. A new king would take his place._

_The man approached and knelt by his side, placing its paws on his head and shoulders. There would be no more fighting, and thus he did not struggle. He lay his head down and watched with fading sight as one of the small two-legs came close and placed one paw on the head of his rival. He closed his eyes. Even as his sense of the forest faded, he still faintly heard the small one’s sing-song chatter and felt its paw upon his neck. A call, alien and incomprehensible, and at the same time as familiar as his own self, echoed through the invisible link with the man-stag. With one last shuddering breath the great stag followed the call, pulled through the link to join with the man-stag._

 

Speaking with Lord Stark proved difficult and required all of his concentration. The second, animalistic presence within him clamored in panic - human words meant nothing to it, only the instinct of herd and forest. As he pulled himself wearily into the saddle Stannis inhaled a new scent - the wolf pup. He had encountered her before, with the stag, and paternalistic protectiveness and possessiveness surged within him. She was intended for his mate; he would be the one to carry her. Unlike the Wolf Lord, they had met once before.

Lord Stark hesitated when Stannis extended his hand for the pup. The Wolf-Lord's defiance was short lived; he averted his eyes and reluctantly handed over the pup under Stannis' glare. The pup recognized him and wagged her tale in eager greeting and submission. As the temperature had dropped and snow began to fall more heavily, Stannis tucked her into his furs up against his ribcage. She snuggled into his body heat and quickly settled down, warm and safe. Her presence gave him some sense of familiarity on the ride back; she was the one thing he had known as both stag and man.

Too tangled up in the confusion of the stag’s essence joining with his own, Stannis paid little attention to his surroundings on the return to Winterfell. Shouts and a flurry of activity brought his attention partially back into focus as they rode into the courtyard, distracting him from his dual inner turmoil.

By the time the horse halted Stannis’ entire body had seized up, and he found dismounting difficult. His Wolf-Girl’s presence at the steps, though, gave him enough motivation to ignore the pain for a moment. The small wolf pup, who had been sleeping within his furs during the ride, started squirming again. Stannis waited until he stood before Sansa to pull the pup out and hand it over to her. This little wolf was his betrothal gift to his future bride.

Sansa’s joy was impossible to dismiss; even the stag’s ethereal presence inside him stirred to awareness. Stannis watched from two perspectives at once, man and stag, as Sansa made her initial acquaintance with the young direwolf pup. The duality confused him, and he struggled to maintain human control.

He froze momentarily when his mate - _Sansa_ \- reached out to caress his jaw. “The king stag,” he heard her say. At a loss for words, Stannis merely bent into her soft touch, savoring the contact. Her easy unaffected gesture, tone and body language conveyed to him that Sansa accepted him without hesitation. Somehow she also recognized that he and the stag were now one. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why.

The shufflings and mutterings of nearby onlookers brought Stannis back to his senses, that plus a warm wet seeping on his side. The wound had broken open. If he did not get inside soon Lord Stark would have to order a squad to carry him. That would not do. He straightened up and walked inside with as much dignity as he could maintain with Brynden Tully’s subtle assistance.

Once inside though, it took the combined strength of Ser Brynden and Mors Umber to help Stannis reach the top of the stairs and his rooms, but he stubbornly remained upright until they reached his inner chamber. At that point all strength and understanding abandoned him.

Stannis heard the babble of the men, but could not decipher its meaning. The cacophony of incomprehensible sounds filled his ears like a tidal wave; the coppery, tangy scent of blood and musty sweat overwhelmed his nose; his leg ached; his side throbbed. Swamped by pain, drowning in confusion, Stannis’ body made the decision for him. Vice-like hands gripped his arms when his legs gave way and all went dark.

 

******

 

Sansa watched with worry as Stannis was helped up the stairs. She could sense his physical pain easily. But there was a second, wild presence within him now, one both familiar and new. That presence, she sensed, had started to awaken as Stannis’ pain increased. For some reason Stannis reminded her of the stag in her dreams when she had reached out to him just a few minutes ago. She startled when Jon spoke suddenly.

“But maybe you can tell me, Sansa. How did _you_ recognize the king stag within Stannis? And how did you know I found her in a cave?”

Jon’s words did not sound accusatory, yet Sansa gripped the new wolfpup more tightly to her chest, prompting forth a whimper from the small bundle of wriggling fur.

“I…” Sansa paused, momentarily overwhelmed by a sudden wave of pain and confusion that she experienced through her odd link with Stannis.

“Sansa? Are you alright?” Jon’s hand shook her shoulder, jolting her attention back to her brother. Sansa straightened and gave her lord brother a small smile, as much to reassure their onlookers as it was to reassure him. Inwardly she tamped down on the link with her king - she needed to remain focused on the people in the immediate vicinity.

“I’m fine, Jon. But can we talk privately?” Some of the southron knights that had arrived a few days earlier lingered in the hall, and Sansa was hyper-aware of the glances they cast in her direction.

Jon led her towards the stairs. “My solar, then. No one will bother us there.”

As Sansa followed Jon she kept repeating his words in her head. _My solar. It was my solar, once, for half a year.  
_

She also noted the splashes of dark red blood that had splattered on every third stair or so.

“Jon, how badly was our king hurt?”

“I’m not sure Sansa. He refused to discuss it. Will you meet me in the solar? Right now I need to make sure the maester and healers attend to the king. Ghost will stay with you.” Jon walked towards the king’s chambers, and Sansa set off for the solar with Ghost at her side.

Alone in the solar, Sansa set the wolf pup down to explore. Ghost immediately curled up in front of the fireplace and closed his eyes. Unlike Ghost, the pup had probably slept on the entire trip to Winterfell, and now showed no signs of tiredness.

Hesitant at first, the pup seemed to consider Sansa her safe zone. She would take a few wobbly steps, then jump back to huddle at Sansa’s feet whenever she smelled or saw something new, which was everything. Sansa giggled at the pup’s antics. She even pounced on Ghost’s tail, but the larger direwolf didn’t even move. Soon the pup pulled a small round stick from the pile of firewood. She dragged it over next to Ghost and began to chew on it, growling softly.

Sansa took the next few minutes to look around the room with a mixture of longing and relief. Up until last night the solar had been hers. Here she had met with her steward and staff, reading and composing letters, conferring with Jon and Uncle Brynden about strengthening ties with allies, discussing the fluid situation in the South, and keeping the peace with the Wildlings. She had been the Lady of Winterfell, nominally in charge of her family’s ancient keep and liege to all their bannermen.

In truth, while she had learned so much, built up her own confidence and gained the trust of Winterfell’s permanent inhabitants, she had occasionally struggled to find her voice in the presence of the experienced lords and bannermen. She knew what they saw - a fifteen year old girl who just spent the last four years living amongst the soft southroners.

And now, she wondered what her new role would be as Stannis’ queen. Did he expect her to do no more than bear his children? What part would she play in decision making, if any? Sansa had no doubts concerning the king’s affections towards her. Thanks to their odd, intangible connection she knew them to be genuine. He accepted her as his future wife and hopefully mother to his children. But would he accept her, respect her as an equal partner in other matters? Would he trust and confide in her?

Stannis had been a lord and commander of men for far longer than Sansa had even been alive. For all the time they had spent together there was still much she did not know about him, and those questions weighed heavy on her heart.

Sansa knew that Stannis took duty, vows and loyalty seriously and personally. Yet he had openly broken his marriage vows by keeping a mistress by his side for nearly three years, even when Selyse was present. Her own mother, Catelyn, had felt humiliated by Jon’s presence at Winterfell, for he was a constant reminder of their father’s infidelity during the war. Sansa couldn’t even begin to imagine the constant humiliation that Selyse had suffered when Stannis had taken Melisandre as an openly acknowledged mistress. If he had done so once, would he do it again?   

The direwolf pup’s bark jerked Sansa’s attention back to the present. Jon entered the solar and shut the door quietly behind him. He looked somber and worried.

“What’s wrong, Jon? Is the king badly injured?” Sansa knew something was afoot from her brother’s expression.

“Stannis has a long gash along his lower side from the stag - he’s lucky the animal didn’t gore him outright. He lost a bit of blood, but the healers say the wound is relatively minor.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. What else is going on?”

Jon sighed as he flopped down in the chair near the fireplace. He slumped back and ran his hands over his face, then reached down to bury one hand in Ghost's fur.

“Our bannermen are already squabbling over the Dreadfort. And we have received news that Harrion Karstark has been freed and is heading north. He is the rightful heir to the Karhold, yet right now his sister Alys and the Magnar of Thenn, Sigorn, hold the Karhold. I gave Alys away at the wedding as I was her closest male kin. To make matters worse, Ser Axel Florent is demanding that I send for Val immediately from the Wall. He seems to think that whatever marriage contract Selyse Baratheon arranged is still valid, and that I must compel Val to marry him. He thinks _he_ should be awarded the Dreadfort. As if I would allow that to happen.”

“Our father never took his duty lightly, Jon. Keeping our bannermen in line will take time and willpower. They will listen to you, but you will have to hear them out as well. I have confidence that you can do it. The solution to the Dreadfort will present itself in time. Don’t rush it.”

“And Ser Axel?”

“Jon, you have pledged your loyalty and me, your sister, to the king. The northern bannermen back Stannis as well, but you cannot give any southrons a foothold in the North. We would have outright revolt if you did. The Dreadfort must not be given to anyone not of the north. And Ser Axel cannot be allowed to marry a northern woman, Wildling or not. The sooner he is gone from here the better. I don’t trust him.”

Jon sighed and looked at his sister wistfully. “I hope you are able to give King Stannis as sage advice as you give to me, sister. He will be a better king for it.”

She smiled at the praise. Yet she also had no doubt that Jon would rule the north effectively.

Jon turned serious again. “Sansa, we came here to speak of Stannis and your wolf pup, not politics. How did you know about the cave?”

“I don’t know, Jon. The evening that Arya and Rickon came home, I had told Arya she should try to call Nymeria back to Winterfell. Then that night I dreamed I was a little wolf pup, playing in the snow on a rocky terrace. Her mother was sick in a cave. And outside on the terrace, there was a king stag. I have come to think of Stannis as our stag king. When I woke up I dismissed it as a dream, wistful thinking.”

Jon shook his head. “Not a dream, Sansa. Ghost pulled this little pup out of the cave on that rocky hillside. Her dam had died inside the cave. Now I’m positive that you are a warg. You were connected with this pup.”

He continued. “Stannis didn’t tell me directly, but somehow he knew that the wolfpup was up there. He all but ordered me to investigate the hillside while he fought the stag. And you, just now, recognized the change in our king. How? You don’t even know what happened out there.”

Sansa paused. She hadn’t spoken of her emotional link to Stannis with Jon or anybody else. Would he believe her?

“For months now there has been a connection of sorts between myself and Stannis. I can’t read his thoughts, but I can sense his emotions, his pain, his essence, for lack of a better word. I know when he is content, when he is angry, when he is troubled, and especially when he is in pain, physical or otherwise. I feel his pain as surely as my own.” She shook her head. “I know it sounds fantastical, like something a stupid little girl who believes in fairytales would say.”

“No Sansa, it doesn’t. I’ve seen magic work firsthand. I’ve watched dead bodies attack while under control of the White Walkers. I’ve seen dismembered arms of the dead crawl across a floor. We are _wargs_. We can communicate and share experiences with direwolves.”

The two siblings automatically reached out to their own direwolves, both asleep at their feet.

“Jon, when I was - _warging_ \- with the pup we stumbled into the king stag. It stomped and snorted, but behaved in a protective manner. He pushed us - the pup - back into the cave. It made me think of Stannis. Almost as if he was one with the animal at that same moment.”

“He may very well have been, Sansa.”

Sansa was shocked. “How? He isn’t a warg - he has none of the blood of the First Men.”

“Do you remember the stories Old Nan used to tell us? She sometimes mentioned the Children of the Forest. I never fully believed her, but now I do. I met one today, at the weirwood tree, right after Stannis finished his fight and killed the stag.”

She gasped. “I thought, even if they were real, that they had all retreated far to the north. What did it say?”

“It said that Stannis and the stag - the forest king - were joined as one. That he must guard the land. That a part of his soul had been taken from him, but with the stag's soul joined with his he is whole again, and more than a man now. Stannis knew exactly where to go. And he knew where to find that wolf pup too. The only way he could possibly have known that was if he had somehow been connected with the stag. And you’ve probably noticed as much as I that our king’s mannerisms have become increasingly feral over the past several months.”

Sansa nodded. “It makes sense. Sometimes I have wondered if he is more man or beast. Now perhaps we know why. But not how.”

“How do we connect with our direwolves? We don’t know how, we just do it. Magic does not have a logical explanation, Sansa. Speaking of direwolves, have you chosen a name for your wolf yet?” Jon’s eyes lingered on the little direwolf pup with interest.

_Lady. I miss her still. Without her protection in King’s Landing all I had were my manners. Courtesy is a lady’s armor…armor..._

“Brynja.” Sansa smiled as she named the pup. “Brynja. She will grow into a strong direwolf, worthy of her name.”

“I like it. No one will ever forget that you are of the North, Sansa. Brynja will be your living armor, guarding your side wherever you go.” Jon looked with amusement at the two direwolves - one large, one tiny - both asleep in front of the fire. “But for now I don’t think she’ll be guarding much of anything.”

A commotion in the hallway followed by a loud knock interrupted them. One of Jon’s guardsmen entered.

“Lord Stark, please come quickly. There is something wrong. King Stannis is attacking the healers!”

“Stay here, Sansa. With Ghost.” Jon ran out, thumping the door behind him.

Sansa stood still, shocked at the news. Stannis would never knowingly attack anyone not an enemy. Cautiously she explored their link. The miasma of darkness, confusion, pain and utter wildness nearly overwhelmed her. Nowhere could she sense her king - only savage, wild fear. She pulled back to discover she had fallen to her knees, and Ghost now stood over her, pawing at her shoulder.

Sansa made up her mind immediately. She scooped up Brynja and opened the door. “Ghost, come! We must hurry to the king!”

 

******

_He awoke to pain. Strange chittering sounds made no sense. Opening his eyes he realized he was not in the forest nor could he see the sky. None of the smells were familiar to him, except one. His nose filled up with of the acrid scent of man. Men! Many men surrounded him, touching his body, pushing him down and rubbing their pungent stench all over him. He struggled vainly to stand as panic set in. He had to escape, return to the thick protective glades of his forest._

_On instinct he lashed out. A high pitched cry resounded and at least two of the men let go of his legs, allowing him to pull himself partially upright. But then more men came in close, grabbing and pushing him down again. Their harsh racket filled the enclosed space. His own fury towards them rose even as he smelled their fear and anger increase with every strike that connected. Many men held him down, while others fastened something that smelled of animal flesh across his body. When the wretched men stepped away he tried to leap up again, but was unable to move. They had somehow pinned him down._

_Soon the vile men with their alien chatter and overwhelming stench left him alone. He struggled briefly, but quickly stopped as he could not free himself. His leg ached and side throbbed with pain. The injury confused him - he recalled both inflicting and receiving this wound all at the same time._

_A new man entered the room - smaller, different somehow. Of men, but not a man. He sniffed the air - female. Her scent was so familiar to him, comforting even, that fear and fury abated. His young mate! She sat next to him and touched him gently. The sounds she made were not harsh, but sweet and lilting. He steadied himself and just concentrated on the captivating tones._

  
_With her came a small wolf pup - the one he had encountered near the cave. How did she come to be in this place as well, befriended by men? The pup appeared calm in the company of the female. Accepting this, and soothed by his mate’s gentle sounds, he allowed himself to relax his guard and finally succumbed to sleep._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brynja means 'armor' in Icelandic. Big thanks to Sarah_Black for the lovely suggestion!
> 
> Thanks to TommyGinger for the beta-read and suggestions! :)


End file.
